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Few people among Yokohama’s inhabitants knew about the existence of a graveyard on this hill overlooking the city. Because it was so secluded, legend had it that it was the place where those who would be missed by only a few end up after their death. However, despite this sad reputation, its tranquility provided its visitors a soothing feeling; like a secret restful haven, spared from the endless hustle and bustle of the never-sleeping city.
Only the city’s trademark merciless wind dared to disturb its quietness – the white marks on the neatly aligned tombstones, like slashes left by the salt and iodine, attested of it. But even the most heartless wind needs some respite. Thus, on mornings that followed a storm, when the out-of-breath sky could barely blow a faint breeze, mist and fog would invade the graveyard, plunging it into a stillness that fit the atmosphere.
Dazai liked coming to this quiet place at the break of dawn following stormy nights. The cold and the moist were like old friends to him; he liked to sit there and greet them as they invaded his lungs, seeped through his skin, and froze his bones to their core. Sometimes – always – he wished he could merge with the mist, become one with it and vanish into nothingness as the rising sun kissed him a last goodbye.
The pressure on his back never allows such thoughts to settle in. Though no less cold than the rest of the scenery, its solid, concrete presence was enough to anchor Dazai into the realm of the living.
“… And that’s about all that’s happened.” Dazai paused to cough softly. Talking in the frost air had hurt his throat. “Phew, I haven’t talked so much in a while, have I? But you know how much I love talking with you…”
Behind him, the white stone listened meekly. At its feet, a bouquet of windflowers laid before a photograph, whose frame had been tarnished by the merciless salty wind. Further to the left, a lone bouquet of chrysanthemums laid pitifully among the weeds, watching its flowery peers with envy. The stains of dirt and dust on its wrapping paper looked like bruises on a maimed skin.
“… I did it, Odasaku. I went and took a taste of the ‘good side’… To be fair, it suits you more than it can ever suit me. That stuff’s really not my thing…”
Dazai’s whisper resounded in the cold stillness with a hollow echo. For what could have been a second or maybe an hour, his mind wandered, blank and cold like the void, white and warm like his own breath merging with the mist.
The sound of water filling in the pail at the graveyard’s entrance roused Dazai from his trance. His instincts immediately kicked in: faint click of tongue, subtle snap of fingers, and the intel came back to him. One person; not very tall; no weapon on them. That was all he needed to know.
Having his back turned to the entrance, and the grave he was slouched on being at the far left side of the hill, Dazai had to rely on echolocation to check his surroundings without betraying himself. All his bad eye could inform him was that the newcomer was now roaming amidst the graves, though they looked like nothing but a blurry silhouette – not to mention the mist wasn’t helping, either.
In other circumstances, Dazai would have taken this arrival as a cue to take his leave. But a familiar voice called out to him before he could move a muscle:
“Fancy seeing you here, new guy.”
Dazai fully turned his head to look straight at the newcomer.
“Oh, if it isn’t Ranpo! Hi!” he greeted his senior Agency member with a cheerful tone – it was only half faked. “I almost didn’t recognize you with that scarf. Are you chilly?”
The raven-haired detective snickered. His breath was white as snow.
“It’s the air that’s chilly. And let me tell you something, newbie: if you want to survive in our Agency, you’ll have to learn soon enough to not fall ill out of negligence… Our doctor has a special grudge against people who neglect their health.”
The subtle hint of pride in his voice tore an amused chuckle out of Dazai.
“I see. Thanks for the advice.”
Ranpo shrugged, like he didn’t care whether Dazai would follow said advice or not. Adjusting his scarf around his nose, he put the pail down and kneeled in front of the grave he had stopped by. Silently cursing his bad eye, Dazai pretended to switch to a comfier position as he tucked the stone behind him between his head and shoulder to observe his elder. Not that it would fool him, he thought afterwards – but the deed was done.
No less stranger to the scene than the birds nesting in the branches above him, he watched Ranpo perform an ohaka mairi – the traditional grave visit ritual. He watched in silence as Ranpo plucked the weeds and moss from of the grave; he watched him pour water on it with a dipper; he watched him kneel again, leave a lone flower – most likely picked somewhere on a roadside – at the grave’s feet, then put an incense stick it in the dedicated container, before igniting it. Dazai kept watching vacantly as Ranpo stood up, joined his hands together and closed his eyes in a silent prayer.
“… I see you’re a traditional,” the bandaged man said after some time. “That’s rather unexpected.”
Ranpo cast him a sidelong glance.
“Well, that’s how I was raised,” he replied. “To be honest, this ritual is kind of a pain to perform, especially when it’s cold.”
He rubbed his clasped hands together, then shoved them in his pockets.
“But once you’ve started it, it kinda goes on its own. It’s a good way to clear your head, I think. I focus on the tasks, one by one, and I forget about the rest. It’s not half bad, actually.”
“So, you don’t actually think about the person buried here during the whole process? Not even during the prayer?”
“Hm, not really. I mean, I do think about them, but it’s rather by rewinding memories than anything.” Ranpo shrugged. “I’m not a person of faith, y’know. I don’t believe in things like the gods, the afterlife, the dead watching over us, and all this nonsense. I could pray, of course, but what would it change? The dead are not listening, nor are they thirsty or caring if their tombstone is dirty. The dead are just dead. The only places they haunt are the minds of the people who miss them; and the only grudges they hold are the ones those who miss them hold against themselves.”
The weight of his words settled low in Dazai’s belly. Needless to say, he couldn’t agree more; but hearing your own thoughts and beliefs in someone else’s mouth hurts a different way.
“Still, you keep coming here, don’t you?”
From Dazai’s perspective, it didn’t look like Ranpo had much cleaning to do on the grave. Perhaps he was visiting it often.
“Not that much. Someone else comes here more often than I do,” the detective replied, as though he had read Dazai’s mind. “I, on the other hand, come here when only I feel like it.” Another shrug. “And today, I woke up thinking I hadn’t come to pay my respects in a long time… I suppose you see what I mean, right?”
Dazai chuckled dryly.
“Do I? Do I look like I am visiting someone’s grave, to you?”
“No.”
Dazai was expecting this answer; what he did not expect was to hear it fall like this, sharp and cold like a guillotine. For the first time since he had entered the graveyard, Ranpo looked directly into Dazai’s eyes. His were shining with a ruthless glow.
“To me, you look like you’re hiding.”
Dazai turned the words again and again in his head, searching through all the possible meanings they could harbor. None felt like the right answer.
An eerie smile etched across his face.
“… Do I?”
Ranpo bore his stare without flinching or blinking once. Tension built up in the still, frozen air – invisible, yet so intense it could set fire to the mist.
Then…
“Well, of course. Actually, Kunikida’s looking for you everywhere, and he’s very pissed. I wouldn’t like to be in your place once he finds you.”
The tension-killer was so unexpected it took several seconds for Dazai to react. And to his own surprise, said reaction was to burst into the sincerest laughter he’d ever barked in forever.
“Haha! Hahahaha!! You got me there!! Ha-hahaha!!”
However, his laugh quickly dried up. And though his expression softened ever-so-slightly, his voice hardened, as if trying to hurriedly fill in the cracks this sudden burst of emotion had created within him.
“Heh heh… You’re really something, Ranpo. You’re really something…”
Ranpo didn’t reply. By the time of a few heartbeats, his eyes had returned to their usual carefree squints. Kneeling down again, he proceeded to wash his dirty hands directly into the pail.
“So, what do you think of the Armed Detective Agency?” he asked as ordinarily as if they had talked about nothing but the weather until then.
Dazai’s happy-go-lucky mask instantly fell back into place.
“Oh, I love it here! Solving mysteries and catching thieves can be a whole lot more fun than I had expected! And I’ve got such amazing colleagues to help with it… I really couldn’t have asked for a better job.”
“Hm-hmm. I’m glad to hear that.”
On the outside, it sounded like a casual conversation between two coworkers. But between the lines, another dialogue was taking place. A secret talk, that no one but them could hear or understand, spoken in a code that they never conferred about, yet could still decipher plainly.
“At least, you seem to be having fun.” (“Did you find what you were looking for within our agency?”)
“Heh heh, you bet. I’ve already said it before, but I’m glad I joined this agency.” (“Perhaps I did. So far, you’ve met most of my expectations.”)
“I suppose you’re also glad you’ve met someone like Kunikida? You two are quite the pair. And you seem to love driving him crazy.” (“Why does it feel like you’re putting us to the test?”)
“I can’t help it. He’s so passionate, genuine, and virtuous… I love teasing people like him. They get riled up so easily, it’s hilarious.” (“Let’s say I’m curious to see how far the people on the ‘good side’ can go until they break.”)
“Heh, I’ll give you that. Well, he’ll get used to it.” (“The ‘good side’, eh? Well, we’re not as fragile as you think, either way.”)
There was a pause. Only the sound of the wind faintly rustling in the leaves and the soft splashing of water could be heard.
“… I guess he will.” (“I sure hope so.”)
These last unsaid words lingered like smoke scent in the cold air.
Above Dazai’s head, the birds slowly came out of their slumber to greet a sun that still had yet to come out. He absently tried to find them within the shadows of the tree’s branches. A lot of thoughts passed by inside his mind – he didn’t feel like pursuing any of them.
Suddenly, Dazai felt very tired. Perhaps he should forget about work for today and go back home. Dawn had barely risen yet, but the mask keeping away his aversion for human contact and daylight activities was already worn out. However, at the same time, the sheer idea of coming back to lay down and stare at the ceiling in complete lethargy made him sick to his stomach.
“To me, you look like you’re hiding.”
A strange snippy sound cracked in the frozen air. Dazai realized it was his own cackle.
That “skill” is the real deal, huh…
Meanwhile, Ranpo was done washing his hands. Grumbling something about the cold, he swiped them on his pants, rubbed them together again and blew inside his palms. Putting on some gloves, he then took the bucket with him, and dumped the rest of the water on a wild flowerbed that grew next to a nearby aisle. But instead of taking the pail back to the graveyard’s entrance, he left it there, shoved his hands into his pockets once more, and walked towards Dazai. Or, more precisely, towards the grave – Odasaku’s grave.
Looking pensively at the kicked-aside bouquet, Ranpo eventually crouched to get it.
“Are you sure you want to put these back into place?” Dazai carefully crafted his voice into a casual tone. “They kinda reek.”
“… Even if it’s me who puts them there?”
Seeing through the picture again, eh?
“Why would you lay flowers on this grave?”
“Because I feel like it?”
Without waiting for a reply, Ranpo placed the flowers next to Dazai’s, and the photograph. Seemingly unbothered by the tense silence, he arranged the three offerings so that they’d be almost carefully lined up.
“Hey, new guy – Dazai, was it? You have cigarettes on you, right? Light one for me, will you?”
Dazai stared vacantly at Ranpo’s extended hand. Confusion, suspicion, as well as something stronger – something like irritation? – tugged at his mask, threatening to tear it apart.
“Uh, I sure do… No offense, Ranpo, but I never pictured you as a smoker.”
“None taken, because I don’t smoke.”
Once again, the mask wavered. “…What do you intend to use it for, then?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Obvious? No, Dazai wouldn’t call it ‘obvious’. The intent was easily guessable; the meaning behind it wasn’t. Unless – unless – you considered a very far-fetched possibility…
Dazai felt as if a vise was squeezing his bleeding pulp of a heart.
“C’mon, what are you waiting for? Don’t leave me here freezing and waiting!” Ranpo swayed his arm impatiently. “Light one up already!!”
Though still wary, Dazai complied. Glancing briefly at the Lupin logo on his lighter, he lighted a cigarette, and took a drag. The smoke burned his already sore throat, causing him to cough softly.
“Do you even know who is buried here?” he croaked while blowing out the smoke.
“… Someone who haunts your mind.”
“Ha! Nice one.”
Dazai snickered and handed the cigarette over to Ranpo. The detective wrinkled his nose at the smell, then proceeded to dig a hole to put the cigarette into, like a makeshift incense container. Dazai didn’t budge from his position.
“Why a cigarette, though?” he insisted.
“Hm? Dunno. It feels more… adequate.”
The vise’s grip tightened.
“Come on, where’s your humor from earlier? You could’ve just said you were out of incense sticks, or whatever.”
“Why? That’s stupid. That’d be a lie and you’d know it. Scratch that, even if you were as dumb as anyone else, I wouldn’t have lied anyway. I hate lies.” Ranpo paused, as if he were hesitating. “But I suppose some lies are more comfortable to believe than the truth.”
Even though the words stung, Dazai wondered if they were actually destined to him.
“Didn’t you lie earlier, though?”
There was no need for Ranpo to ask what Dazai was referring to.
“No. Kunikida is definitely looking for you right now. No need to be a great detective like me to be certain of it.”
“Still, that’s not a fact you’ve witnessed.”
“You make it sound like I could be wrong.”
“By no means! I trust your words.” Cocking his head in a way that made him look like a younger, more mischievous boy, Dazai grinned and added: “Buuut~ You can’t deny you’ve twisted the truth – even if it was for a joke.”
“Humph. You’re playing on words… Well, at any rate, it hardly counts as a lie.”
Ranpo tapped the ground around the stood-up cigarette to make sure it wouldn’t fall. The smell of smoke became omnipresent around Dazai. A lump started to form in his throat. For a brief second, he thought that if he closed his eyes, he would hear the jazzy music; hear the ringing of glasses.
Hear the voice of an old friend.
“If you hate lies so much, then would you answer this one honestly for me?” Dazai asked, almost in a whisper. “Do you know the person who’s buried here?”
“… If you mean ‘have I met them before’, then the answer is yes.”
The vise yanked Dazai’s heart out of his ribcage, pulling it inside his throat. His mouth opened in a voiceless hiccup.
“Only twice, though. I can hardly say I ‘know’ the guy… We’ve barely talked.”
Falling silent again, Ranpo stood up, clasped his hands together and, bowing his head in reverence, closed his eyes.
His back still turned to the grave, Dazai slowly joined his trembling fingertips together. For a long moment, he stared at the cracks and ripples on his knuckles, as if the answers to the thousand questions swirling inside his head were hidden somewhere in their furrows.
“I could pray, but what would it change? The dead are just dead.”
If Ranpo wasn’t praying… If praying was, to him, more of an opportunity to bring back memories of the missing person… What could he be possibly thinking about as he remained silent in front of Odasaku’s grave?
Dazai wanted to know; but at the same time, he didn’t. He wanted to ask Ranpo about it; but he also wanted him to leave. To go away – and then maybe the possibility would go away with him.
Such cowardly wishful thinking.
“… He knew he was going to die.”
A dreadful cold, colder than the coldest winter, seized Dazai. It felt as though all his blood was being drained from every single vein of his body, sucking away the mask veiling his core in the process.
“When I first met that guy, he was a young boy – not much older than I was – who was killing for a living. I remember clearly the thrill that went down my spine when I looked into his eyes. They were soulless; filled with nothing but a cold resignation.”
Dazai didn’t dare to breathe. He was aware his brain was firing countless warning signals, but his entire being had stopped listening. An overwhelming thumping sound had invaded his ears, like a military parade was marching under his skull – yet it still failed to smother Ranpo’s words as he kept on talking, as if to himself.
“A few years later, I heard he had given up on his assassin activities and had started a new life. I didn’t try to know more about it. I was simply happy to hear the news; then I just dropped the topic and went on my own path. I didn’t think we’d meet again.”
Ranpo broke his praying stance and shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Yet we did… I don’t think he remembered me, though. I, on the other hand, immediately recognized him… I would have recognized those dead dark eyes among thousands. They were the same as the first time.”
He paused, looking up pensively.
“… No. Not exactly the same. Back then, he had the look of those who have nothing to lose. But that day, there was something else… an unfathomable pain shining deep inside his eyes; like his very life had been plundered, shredded apart right in front of his eyes…”
Dazai failed to repress the impulse to glance at the tiny stones lined up down the slope where Oda’s grave stood. Expectedly, Ranpo followed his gaze.
“I tried to dissuade him. My Ultra-Deduction told me what had happened – and what was going to happen. I knew he had fallen back into the path of killing… though it was not for survival anymore. Only for vengeance. There was… I could feel a formidable desire burning inside of him… something spine-chilling, that only blood could quench.”
“Stop.”, Dazai screamed – voicelessly. “Don’t say another word.”, he pleaded – silently. “Shut up!”, he yelled – soundlessly. His voice remained blocked inside his throat, choking him, leaving him breathless.
Yet, Ranpo did stop. He did trail off as he stared at the grave without seeing it. Dazai hated the desperateness with which his heart yearned for at least a glimpse of what those hazel eyes could see through the lenses of their memories.
“I tried to dissuade him,” Ranpo repeated in a faint whisper, which sounded like a sigh. “But he had made up his mind. He knew he was going to die… And he had accepted it.”
Silence fell on the hill. The birds stopped singing. Even the breeze had subsided. It was as though the entire scenery was listening intently.
Dazai took a deep breath. As slowly as if his body was made of glass, he returned to his former position: back against the grave, head resting against the cold stone. His voice was hoarse when it came back in his scorching throat.
“With all due respect, Ranpo… This is a graveyard. Not a confessional.”
“… For some people, it amounts to the same.”
Dazai let out a broken sneer.
“And you are one of these people? Didn’t you say earlier that the dead aren’t listening to us?”
“I did; and they aren’t. But that doesn’t mean no one’s listening.”
Dazai could feel his piercing gaze burning his skin. He pursed his lips, unsure of what to say.
“And at any rate…” Ranpo stretched his limbs, and started to turn around. “I also needed to get some things off my chest.”
“Oh. And are you feeling any better, now?”
If Ranpo was hurt by the sarcasm in Dazai’s voice, he chose to hide it. For a moment, he remained silent, as if pondering the question.
A joyless chuckle escaped him.
“Heh. Can’t say I am.”
Perhaps it was something in the tone of his voice, or perhaps the last straw holding Dazai’s façade together was already too loose to last. But something inside him started to crack.
He didn’t like that plain honesty Ranpo was showing him. It scared him.
However, at the same time, he was drawn to it – just like he let himself be drawn to Odasaku’s grounding sincerity when he felt lost after feeling his friend’s blood, still warm yet already cooling, on his palms.
The vise won the fight; Dazai could feel his mashed heart spill its pulp like an overripe fruit.
“… Tell me…” His voice was so weak he feared the words would crumble into the air before they reached Ranpo’s ears. “Tell me, Ranpo: was there really no way to save Odasa… to save this guy?”
Ranpo didn’t answer immediately. His eyes drifted slowly from Dazai to the stone at his feet, to the photograph, and then to the cigarette smoldering in front of it.
“…You’re actually a lucky one, y’know?”
Dazai cocked his head, his eyebrows furrowed in a quizzical frown.
“I told you I had heard that guy had found his place outside the path of assassination, right? From what I see, you’ve known the guy during that time. I didn’t get that luxury. I’ve met him twice, and both times he was hollow inside…”
“He hadn’t found his right place,” Dazai retorted icily. “His place wasn’t… it wasn’t there. He should have… He should have lived a different life.”
Mouth agape, Dazai remained still like the stone behind his back as the realization hit him like a truck.
“… See? You already know the answer to your question, Dazai.” Though Ranpo was still standing next to the grave, his voice sounded faraway – like a ghost whispering in the fog. “If the only way to save him is in the past, then it’s that nothing could have saved him.”
The detective’s tone grew softer, even if a little.
“You say he hadn’t found his right place yet, and I’m not going to argue with that. After all, Ultra-Deduction or not, you knew him better than I could ever do… But y’see: to be this broken after what had happened, I think he truly loved the life he was living. That may not have been his ideal life, but he loved it nonetheless.”
“… How can you be so sure? Is your skill telling you this?”
“No. That’s no deduction. Only what I think.”
“… If that’s the case, then that means you could be wrong on this one.”
“Hm. Maybe. But do think I am?”
Dazai’s palate felt doughy and bitter as the answer rotted on his tongue.
The sun chose this exact moment to shed its first rays on the frozen scene. Perhaps it was Dazai’s imagination, but the world seemed to glow for a brief second – a second that felt like an agonizing eternity as Ranpo turned around, glanced at him from above his shoulder and said:
“Once you’re done here, be sure to go to the Agency, ‘kay? Even if you do nothing all day, it’s better there than alone in your room…”
Dazai blinked several times, blinded by the sun. When he could see straight again, the mist had begun to dissipate. Ranpo was nowhere to be seen.
Dazai wondered if he had imagined that last part. Maybe he had imagined all of this.
Slowly, mechanically, he got to his feet, and walked past the grave to face it. The cigarette was still there – an ember glowed faintly at its end, like a broken beacon in a fogged sea.
The thought of crushing it under his shoe crossed Dazai’s mind.
Stirred out of slumber by the rising sun, the wind started to blow stronger, whipping at his coat. The leaves above rustled, dissatisfied; the ember below flickered, persistent.
Dazai didn’t move an inch.
“That may not have been his ideal life, but he loved it nonetheless.”
“The only grudges the dead hold are the ones those who miss them hold against themselves.”
Ah, there it came again. That damn lump squeezing his throat. When Dazai tried to swallow it, it tasted like the blood that was oozing from his bitten lip.