Withered Away

2. Truthfully Death

The clouds are already different hues of pink and orange by the time Takagi has calmed down enough to go back to sleep, so he sighs heavily and heads to the kitchen for a morning coffee. Steam rises above the little white mug, but when he takes a sip, it's ice cold. Takagi's thoughts wander back to Conan, and his blood runs as cold as the coffee. Conan had loved iced coffee; he would always beg Ran-san for the stuff when they were wrapping up a case. Once or twice, Takagi had even seen an officer slip it to him when she wasn't looking.

He doesn't have time to go further down memory lane because in the blink of an eye, someone is there. Takagi dare not ponder who, but his detective instincts are screaming it at him as he numbly pours the coffee down the sink. He can feel the eyes boring into his back asking difficult questions and demanding attention, but he whips around to be met with an empty room. Except that it doesn't feel empty—if Takagi turned around right now, he might accidentally make breakfast for two.

It's nothing, Takagi tries to tell himself. Maybe his coffee maker is broken. Maybe he's too tired to think straight. But it certainly can't be what his gut is trying to tell him. Anything but that. It's impossible. Utterly ridiculous. He's a detective, for God's sake, not a paranormal investigator.

Still, as Takagi stands in front of the door with his hand on the knob, something stops him. He's not even sure he can explain why, but he can't seem to open it and leave for some minutes, grappling with the little whisper in his mind that convinces him of what his instincts already know. Takagi doesn't want to face it, but there is an undeniable fact that sits like a weight in his chest—Edogawa Conan is not quite gone. Somehow, through some miracle or nightmare, or both, he's come back. And Takagi intends to find out why.

Swearing under his breath, Takagi kicks his shoes off and heads back into the kitchen, grabbing the corded phone from its perch off the wall. He hurriedly explains that his migraine hasn't gone away and that he can't come into work today. It's a sort of half-truth, anyways. His head still feels a bit like pins and needles, buzzing with poorly repressed anxiety over the Edogawa Conan affair. He hangs up with a click, getting out a tall glass and more coffee grounds. Silently, he makes an iced coffee and sets it down in front of an empty chair at his kitchen table. He rests his palms on the table for a minute.

"A peace offering," he says simply. The absurdity of talking to a seemingly empty room does not escape him, but he can't find it in him to care. He really, really doesn't like whatever had happened a year ago—a gory domino effect that left behind nothing more than a footnote when it should have been the front page. Takagi gets the feeling that it's going to fall on his shoulders to fix it. After all, he's the only one who could never quite give up on the case after it was closed, the only one who took the time to squint. With that thought, he shrugs on his coat and hesitates just a little bit in front of the door.

This time, nothing stops him, and he steps out into the dreary morning. Rain pounds against his windshield as he drives (admittedly faster than he should) towards Tropical Land, the silhouette of the Ferris wheel stark against the gray blanket draped over the sky. The brightly colored lights seem to dull in the dripping haze, unable to quite pierce it. As Takagi draws nearer, the advertisements on the road become more numerous, all plastered with huge, fake smiles that seem to ooze poison from the lips and whisper empty promises of escapism among the cotton candy and cheap teddy bears. It makes Takagi feel a little sick to the stomach, but he drives on.

When he finally arrives, almost nobody is there, of course—it's a weekday morning and pouring to boot. The few people he passes seem in a hurry to get home and come back another day, which is fine by Takagi. It just means that he doesn't have to worry about being disturbed.