𝙵𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚎 | 𝙱𝚂𝙳 𝙵𝚊𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚌

One

Present Day

-

The song of birds was always accompanied by sunrise, or so she'd been told. The sound reverberated around the bedroom, the only indication that she was truly somewhere. Sheets lay tangled around her body, infused with the familiar scent of laundry detergent.

She inhales, black pooling around the underside of her lashes. Ever since the day she lost her parents; she would send a prayer to the skies.

Today, Mizuki prayed she wouldn't see the kindly man who regularly served her at the coffee shop. She recalled his voice, how it rang out the instant she wandered inside, how her senses would flood with the scent of freshly brewed coffee. The ease that came with the warmth of the cup in her hands, the gentle chatter, laughter, and greetings that drifted around the chamber. She came by regularly, whether the skies be clear or sprinkled with rain.

She dreaded the day she'd see him.

Mizuki exhales, shifting underneath the covers. The mere thought of another life, slipping through her fingers like running water, unsavable, unstoppable, was stifling. Her throat tightens at the notion, her heartbeat quickening in her ears.

Sometimes, Mizuki almost wished that she would see herself instead. That she could take their place, bound by a well deserved fate. Her mouth formed a hard line. 

Unfortunately, that just wasn't possible -- and it wasn't worthwhile to entertain such thoughts. Even if the day came, there wasn't anything she could do about it. It was stupid, and unfair. But it was her life, and her curse. She just had to live with it.

Pushing these thoughts aside, Mizuki opens her eyes.

Her vision reveals a familiar world of inky hues. The same as always. She sighs, rubbing the sleep from her sight, and throws back the covers.

It wasn't the best morning. She spent an eon ironing clothes, the shower water was cold, and her hair was messy and tangled. It took thirty minutes to tame her hair into a braid, albeit a messy one. There wasn't any cereal left in the cupboard, let alone granola bars.

It was disappointing.

An hour later, she approaches the café, the morning buzz of traffic swirling around her ears. The cane in her hand taps at the ground absently. Mizuki keeps her eyes trained downward, flinching when a pair of black shoes come into view.

Her gaze flits up instinctively. Mizuki's sight trains on a young man with bright eyes—proud, green ones—dressed in a brown overcoat and cap. The man doesn't acknowledge her, appearing to be deep in thought as he strides away from the café. One hand resides in his pocket; another holds a foreign object beyond Mizuki's sight.

She freezes.

She couldn't help it; he was so young, so undeserving of such a fate. Her brow furrows as the human traffic thickens, shoulders bumping, murmured apologies and curses as the visible person grew farther away. Mizuki's fist tightens around her cane.

But she couldn't move. Her legs felt frozen in place, attached to the sidewalk below. Air stirred in her lungs, preparing her to move as her heart quickened. Fear—no, anger—twisted dangerously in her abdomen at her lack of movement.

Her fight-or-flight response roars over everything else.

Afraid of the man, afraid for him, wonders of what and how and why. There should be a reason as to why such a young man would die so soon. Perhaps drugs, violence, or even self-induced? He didn't initially strike her as someone like that. It was likely something simpler, like crossing the street at the wrong moment or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Coincidence or not, he couldn't fight fate.

The man disappears into the crowd, gone as soon as he came. Mizuki's brow furrows as she forces herself to turn around and move. Her feet plant on the sidewalk, each step weaker than the last.

He felt so familiar.

-

Mizuki enters the café, the entrance bell jingling gently as she steps inside. The familiar scent of coffee beans washes over her, sharp and rich notes that nestle into her senses, reminiscent of overflowing cups and warm smiles. A voice, across the room, shoots a greeting in her direction. Usually, she'd feel happy.

Today, it brings nothing.

She ordered her usual, a vanilla latte with two shots of expresso. The man at the counter, as always, offered her a dessert, claiming it would be on the house.

She politely refused.

Mizuki didn't order a cream design for her latte, considering how she wouldn't be able to see it. However, she did request a slice of strawberry cheesecake for breakfast. It didn't technically qualify as dessert.

After ordering, Mizuki waits at the end of the counter, tapping her cane thoughtlessly against the ground. She sighs. At the very least, nobody in this building was visible. Mizuki pinches the bridge of her nose. The young man from the streets wouldn't, couldn't leave her mind.

She wondered how he struck her so familiarly, as someone she'd met before. Maybe it was the attire, formal, almost something a detective would wear. Maybe it was how he seemed lost in thought, drifting in a world of his own. Mizuki did work at a detective agency; however, she wasn't familiar with what her coworkers wore on the daily. Her brows knit together.

What if he was someone she worked with?

Mizuki frowns, shifting her weight against the counter. It seemed unlikely. There were more than three million people in her city, Yokohama. It was the second largest city in Japan in terms of population. The likelihood of one of her coworkers being among those that would die today in the city were low; however, with her risky line of work, the chances shot up significantly.

They dealt with drug deals, murders, and acts of supernatural origin. The Armed Detective Agency often solved difficult, violent crimes that the metropolitan police wouldn't be able to handle. Additionally, they put up with the Port Mafia, an underground criminal organization.

When she'd first met her coworkers, she'd asked to touch them to get an internal visualization of their looks. Mizuki also received files with the physical characteristics, the ones she couldn't sense through touch. It was an awkward experience, learning colors and shapes, committing them to memory, and how each voice connected to a name. She'd learned their confidential histories and pasts.

Mizuki wondered if they did the same, memorizing facts about her life, the things that brought her joy, her favorite pastimes. How she refused to visit graveyards, buy flowers, and flinched at the mention of death, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. It was an uncomfortable thought.

She sifts through her memories. Facts about eye colors, face structures, hair textures, of her male coworkers surface to her thoughts. Kenji was too young, a blonde boy who radiated innocence and joy. Dazai was too tall, thin, always wearing beige over dark brown, and was probably off in a river somewhere. He would only go inside a café for the women, not the sweets.

Sweets.

She blinks at the recollection of a male with ebony hair, dark green eyes, and a crippling addiction to pastries. A young man, 26, proud and childish, but cold and calm the instant a situation called for it. The intelligent backbone to the agency, the man who could solve any case in an instant. His deduction skills, his intense thought, his ceaseless pride. It lined up.

The room is deafened underneath the roar of blood in her ears.

Ranpo Edogawa.