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Kudo Shinichi discovered that the silence in the University of Tokyo's Faculty of Law library had a shape. It was like a giant, transparent jelly, enveloping him completely. He could see the outside world, but no sound penetrated through. It was a world apart from the constant, simmering clamor of Beika Town, where a body could drop at any moment.
He lifted his head from An Introduction to Criminal Procedure Law. The book was as thick as a brick, its cover bearing the name of some stern-faced professor. Its contents were so dry that after just three pages, he found himself longing for the oddly shaped murder weapons and splattered bloodstains of his other life. His phone lay on the corner of the desk, screen facing down. He knew there was nothing on it. Ran's message from this morning—"Teaching a new student at the dojo ^^"—was the last thing there. He had replied, "Okay." And that was it. Like two people passing each other in a hallway, offering a polite, perfunctory nod.
When had it started becoming like this? He couldn't pinpoint it. Probably on some utterly unremarkable Tuesday, or an ordinary weekend. Relationships were like that. You couldn't identify the exact moment they soured, just as you couldn't know the precise second the milk in the refrigerator began to turn.
He closed the book and decided to return to his so-called "home"—a one-bedroom apartment his parents had bought years ago, located in a Tokyo neighborhood so anonymous even the convenience store clerks couldn't remember its name. The train rattled and swayed; he stood by the door, watching the grey, dusty buildings outside fall away like dominoes. Inside the carriage, a high school girl with oversized headphones laughed uproariously at her phone screen. A middle-aged man in a suit, his eyes closed and mouth slightly agape, was probably dreaming of promotions or divorce.
Kudo Shinichi, nineteen years old, detective, single, standing amidst these strangers, felt like a fish mistakenly tossed into an unfamiliar aquarium.
The moment the apartment door opened, the particular scent of a life lived alone washed over him—a specific kind of air current, devoid of human presence. He took off his shoes and lined them up neatly. It was a habit formed at the Mouri household. Ran kept their genkan pristine, like a showroom. Slippers were always in pairs. On the shoe cabinet, she placed little seasonal decorations: cherry blossom branches in spring, a wind chime in summer, pinecones in autumn.
His own genkan held nothing. Even the dust found this place boring, couldn't be bothered to settle.
The refrigerator contained onigiri and sandwiches bought from the convenience store yesterday, arranged in neat rows like soldiers awaiting inspection. He took out a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip. The cold liquid slid down, but it didn't quench his thirst. Instead, it made him more acutely aware that his throat was empty, his stomach was empty, his entire being felt hollowed out.
He remembered calling Ran last night. He had been sitting on this IKEA sofa—probably called EKTORP or KIVIK, the kind of fabric-covered style Scandinavians loved but Japanese people always found slightly off—the TV was on, broadcasting some variety show where comedians emitted exaggerated, fake laughs.
He had wanted to say: Let's meet this weekend.
The call connected. The background noise was chaotic. He heard Sonoko's piercing voice: "Ran! Come quick! This strawberry parfait is a work of art!"
"Shinichi?" Ran's voice was slightly breathless, as if she'd just been running, or laughing hard. "What's up?"
"This weekend, do you—"
"Ran, look! They have a seasonal limited edition chestnut flavor!"
"Ah, coming! Shinichi, sorry, I'm out with Sonoko and some people from the club. Can I call you back later?"
"Oh. Sure."
Then came the dial tone in his ear. The question, "Do you want to meet this weekend?" ultimately dissolved into the apartment's somewhat stagnant air, like an effervescent tablet dropped into a sink—fizzing for a few bubbles before vanishing without a trace.
He stood in a daze in front of the kitchen counter for a while, then washed the glass, dried it carefully with a soft cloth, and put it back in the cupboard. As he did these things, memory clips automatically played in his mind: Ran washing dishes in the kitchen, the sound of rushing water, her humming a random, but comfortable, melody. He, as Conan, would sometimes stand on a small stool to hand her plates. She would say, "Conan, you're so good," or, "Dad drank too much again, honestly."
Those sounds were terrifyingly clear now, like old films restored in high definition, every frame sharp and vivid.
The situation was deeply ironic. In his most confined body, he had been steeped in the most mundane aspects of her life. Now that he was free, he was shut out.
What you cannot get and what you have lost hurt the most: he was both the one who couldn't get back, and the one who had once received her special favor. Now he was suspended in between, neither here nor there.
He went back to Beika that weekend anyway.
He didn't announce it in advance, trying to cultivate an air of "I just happened to be passing by," even though getting from Todai University to Beika required two train transfers and an hour and a half.
Pushing open the door of the detective agency, he found Mouri Kogoro yelling at the TV screen: "Run! Run! Number three! You bastard, number three!"—clearly having lost another bet on the horses. Ran was sitting at the table by the window, surrounded by a spread of textbooks and notebooks, her hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing that familiar green dress.
"Shinichi?" She looked up, slightly surprised, then smiled. "What are you doing here?"
"Had some business around here," he lied without blinking—a professional skill for a detective.
He walked over and sat down beside her. Her open notebook was filled with dense handwriting, the title reading "Research on Welfare Support Models for Community Aging Issues." He glanced at it, feeling these terms were like a foreign language from another world.
"What are you working on?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"A report due next week." She pushed the notebook slightly towards him, perhaps out of politeness. "About social welfare practices."
"Oh."
Silence followed.
It had never been like this before. They always had endless things to talk about—cases, school, gossip, or meaningless bickering.
"Have you eaten?" Ran finally asked, her tone carrying a routine concern.
"Not yet."
"Then I'll make something. There's curry roux in the fridge, or I could make noodles?"
She got up and went into the kitchen. He watched her back. He recognized the dress; Sonoko had given it to her for her birthday two years ago. He had been there as Conan, watching her unwrap the gift, her face blooming with a smile as she said, "It's so cute."
He walked to the kitchen doorway, watching her tie on her apron. She opened the refrigerator, took out an onion, carrots, potatoes. Her movements were practiced, like performing a routine repeated a thousand times. The knife fell on the cutting board with a steady, rhythmic thump, thump, thump.
"Need any help?" he asked.
She looked back. "The great detective can cook? You're not going to carve the potatoes into the shape of a murder weapon, are you?"
"Don't underestimate me." He walked over, picked up another potato and a peeler. "Living alone, you have to learn some survival skills."
He started peeling. His movements weren't fluid, but they were passable. Ran looked at him, surprised. "Wow, you've improved."
"Convenience store food gets nauseating after a while."
They stood side-by-side in the not-so-spacious kitchen. The pot began to steam, carrying the aroma of food. The faucet ran with a steady rush. They worked in their own spaces, their arms or shoulders occasionally brushing inadvertently before they subtly shifted apart.
The scene reminded him of the past, yet it was fundamentally different. Back then, he was Conan, standing on tiptoe to hand her spices or stirring the pot. She would pat his head and say, "Thank you, Conan." He was the one being cared for, the participant, and also the secret intruder.
Now, he felt like a collaborator. But this role felt even more awkward, because he wasn't sure if he was truly needed.
"How have you been lately?" Ran asked as she sautéed the meat. A safe, standard question, suitable for any relationship.
"Alright. The library's just too quiet."
"Isn't quiet good? You used to love quiet."
"It's too quiet. Makes it easy to overthink." He paused. "And it always feels like something's missing."
"You must be missing cases," she laughed. "You're probably conditioned. You're not used to the lack of screams and bloodstains."
"Maybe." He didn't explain what that "something missing" really was: the sound of her off-key humming, Uncle Mouri's blaring TV, the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen—the specific, vivid, messy, warm background noise of this space that he missed.
During the meal, Mouri Kogoro, shoveling curry rice into his mouth, asked muffledly, "Hey, kid, got any interesting cases over there? Things have been dead around here lately."
"Dad! Don't talk about cases during dinner!" Ran chided.
But Shinichi actually wanted to talk about it. He had a decent burglary case; the method wasn't sophisticated, but the perpetrator's counter-surveillance skills had troubled the police for days. He put down his spoon and began to explain the lack of evidence, the blind spots in the cameras, how he'd deduced the point of entry from the slight displacement of a flowerpot on a neighbor's balcony.
He got into it. This was his most familiar state, like a fish in water. Uncle Mouri listened with keen interest, interjecting with "And then?" and "How did the culprit get in?"
While answering, Shinichi watched Ran from the corner of his eye.
She ate her meal quietly, a faint smile on her face, as if listening to a moderately interesting story. But the intense focus and admiration that had once been almost overflowing were gone. Her expression now was closer to polite—the kind you maintain in a social situation when listening to a topic you're not terribly interested in, just to avoid making the other person feel awkward.
He finished the story. Uncle Mouri lamented, "Criminals these days are getting sneakier," before turning his attention back to the TV—now showing a comedy show where performers were taking a wasabi-eating challenge, their faces contorted into otherworldly shapes.
Ran started clearing the dishes.
"I'll wash them," Shinichi said.
"It's fine, it'll be quick."
She carried the plates into the kitchen. He didn't insist, but he didn't leave either. He stood in the doorway, watching her back. She turned on the faucet, squeezed out detergent, white foam bubbling up like cheap magic. The water rushed, dishes clinked together with a clean sound.
"That case… they caught the perpetrator later."
"Hmm, that's good," she said, continuing to wash.
"Yesterday, when I was cleaning the bathroom, I pulled a huge clump of hair from the drain."
"Oh, that's normal. Me too. I always get a lot of hair when I clean. It's just metabolism."
"Yeah."
He didn't continue. That wasn't what he had meant to say. He had wanted to say that when he was Conan, he had helped her clean the bathroom too. Back then, their hair would get tangled together—short black strands and long brown ones, twisted into a mass clogging the drain. It was a kind of almost messy, yet incredibly warm, intimacy. Evidence of two lives intertwined, undeniable.
Now, the only hair he cleaned was his own.
Lonely metabolism.
He wanted to ask her, during those long years when he was small and absent, had she ever, on some afternoon while cleaning the bathroom, stared at the drain containing only her own hair and felt this distinct, solitary loneliness?
But he didn't ask. What would be the point?
When he left, dusk was settling. Ran saw him off downstairs.
"Be careful on your way back," she said.
"Mm. Good luck with your report."
"Okay."
He turned and walked a few steps before she called out again. "Shinichi."
He looked back.
"Next time you come back, let me know in advance." She smiled. "Otherwise, I might not be home, or I might not have time to cook properly."
He looked at her. Her life had long since moved forward. She had new classes, new friends, new things demanding her energy. She was still here, would still smile at him, but her world no longer revolved around the axis of "waiting for Kudo Shinichi."
It wasn't anyone's fault. Time and distance had quietly, imperceptibly pulled apart two tracks that were once parallel, and neither of them had noticed immediately.
"I know," he said.
On the train back to Tokyo, he took out his phone and scrolled through his chat history with Ran. It was full of short exchanges. "Eaten?" "Yeah." "How were classes?" "Fine." "I'm here." "Ok." Like two strangers observing formalities to maintain a nominal connection.
He scrolled up further, to the earlier messages, from when he was Conan, using Shinichi's phone to send her emails. Those texts were longer, more strained, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth, carrying an inexpressible guilt and a deliberately created distance.
A sudden, sharp realization hit him:
While he, as Conan, was greedily absorbing the warmth of her proximity, he was simultaneously using the identity of "Kudo Shinichi" to repeatedly train her to get used to separation. He had satisfied his own secret longing, but in doing so, he had pushed his true self further and further away, so far that she had finally learned how to live a good life in a world without him.
It was a trap, perfectly dug and constructed by his own hands.
Back in his apartment, he sat in the dark for a while. Then he got up, walked to his desk, and switched on the lamp. The soft light illuminated a small area, like an isolated island.
He took out stationery and a pen.
He didn't know what to write. "I miss you" felt too heavy. Cases were too dry. That observation about hair was too weird.
The pen tip hovered over the paper, stalled for a long time, before finally descending.
Ran,
The curry I had when I visited today was delicious. Much better than anything I could make. The last time I tried, I used too much curry roux, and it ended up thick as mud. I gave up after two bites.
The library at Todai is unusually quiet. It's good for studying, but also for letting your mind wander. I find myself thinking about Uncle Mouri shouting at the horse races, and the sound of you putting away the dishes. Those sounds become especially clear in the silence, almost like auditory hallucinations.
About that burglary case I mentioned—it's closed now, but I was thinking, if you'd been there, you might have noticed the anomaly with that flowerpot sooner. You always see the details I overlook. Even though you always say, "I don't understand deduction," your intuition is often spot on.
Is the report going well? I don't know the first thing about social welfare, but if you need help looking up materials, just ask. I'm at the library a lot anyway; I might as well make use of the time.
Also, the faucet in my apartment's bathroom seems to be leaking. Drip, drip, drip. Especially at night, it's so noisy it keeps me awake. Next time I'm back, could you show me how to fix it? I remember you're good at that sort of thing. You fixed the pipes at your place a few times.
Oh, and my landlord is a slightly eccentric old lady. Every time I pay the rent, she asks me, "Do you have a girlfriend yet?" I say, "I used to," and she gets this look that says "young people just don't know how to cherish things," and then she sighs. I think she probably assumes I'm the kind of heartless guy who dumped his girlfriend for his career. The reality is much more complicated than that, and I have no idea how to explain to a seventy-year-old woman the whole "I-turned-into-a-child-so-we-were-separated-but-now-I'm-back-yet-everything-seems-different" situation.
The weather's getting cooler. Remember to dress warmly.
Shinichi
The letter contained a case, daily life, self-deprecation, subtle concern, and a request that wasn't really just a request. It didn't mention loneliness, or metaphysical musings about hair and breath.
He carefully folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and affixed a stamp. He could drop it in a mailbox on his way to school tomorrow.
It was an old-fashioned thing to do. In an era where everything could be transmitted instantly, writing a letter, waiting for it to traverse the city and reach her hands, would take several days. But this slowness seemed appropriate. What their relationship needed now wasn't speed, but patience. Like water dripping on stone, bit by bit.
After finishing this, he felt the tightness in his chest ease slightly. He walked to the window and looked down at the sporadic car lights streaking across the streets below. This city was so vast. He was on one side, she on the other. They looked up at the same sky, but breathed slightly different air, ate onigiri from different convenience stores, cleared fallen hair from their respective bathroom drains.
He thought, perhaps this is what adulthood is like. Each flowing in their own current, occasionally converging, picking up traces of the other's scent, then continuing to flow onward.
What he needed to learn was how to build a new, genuine connection with her, as Kudo Shinichi.
It would take time. Patience. And perhaps many such clumsy, awkward letters.
He closed the window. Picked up the half-read mystery novel from his desk, and sat back down on the sofa.
As for how to get close again, he was still learning, slowly. Like learning to make curry—the first attempt might be a disastrous mess, but surely, eventually, one would get it right, wouldn't they?