Sanemi burst out of the shower, his skin tingling with cold sweat and residual heat. He couldn't believe his body had reacted to the memory of Mia; his primal male nature was a terrifying liability when his life demanded surgical control. He quickly pulled on soft flannel pajamas and sought refuge in the dining room, desperate to anchor himself to something real.
"Check the food in the container," his mother called out.
He opened the fridge, the cool air smelling faintly of old herbs, and took out a carton of juice. He sat across from his mother at the table, the simple act feeling monumental.
"It's strange to see you sitting here with me," his mother said, her voice soft with cautious happiness. "I hope you are doing well, my son." The lines of worry around her eyes softened as she clung to the hope that her son was finally beginning to heal.
"So, today you prepared ramen," Sanemi noted, lifting the lid. The savory scent of broth and noodles rose, a comforting, nostalgic aroma.
"Yes, my son. I thought you might have missed it, so I prepared it for you. Do you like it?" His mother's eyes were filled with the deep, simple love of the only person she had left.
"I really missed this," Sanemi admitted, taking a careful bite. "I remember the last time I ate this with Dad, before we went out for a movie."
"Oh yeah, I remember that day!" His mother's laughter, a bright, clear sound, sliced through the quiet room.
"It messed up with your stomach, and you couldn't wait for the movie to finish! You made us come back home running since you didn't want to use the toilets in the theater, ha-ha!"
Sanemi laughed too, a rare, genuine sound. But the laughter quickly faded. A heavy silence settled, broken only by the low hum of the television. His mother sighed, the deep expression of sadness returning as she remembered.
"I really missed your dad. I wish he was still here with us." His mother's eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
"I know, Mom. I missed him too," Sanemi replied, his voice thick. He managed a weak joke. "But don't say that, Mom, I'm gonna start crying."
His mother let out a wet, choked laugh, telling him not to worry. "I can't tell you how happy I am that we're talking like this, and I wish we could still be like before."
He assured her not to worry. He finished his food, the taste of normalcy bittersweet, thanked her.
"I'm going to rest now, Mom. I'm tired." He retreated to his room, the fragile warmth of the dinner table instantly replaced by cold dread.
Lying on his bed, the weight of his mother's happiness crushed him. I see hope in her eyes. That's a good thing. But I've put myself on a knife's edge. If I fall, all that joy shatters again. She'd be utterly broken this time. His mother was the true north of his chaos. I can't tell her. I should know what to do to protect her smile.
In the police department, the investigative wing was a cave of grim purpose. Chief McKay sat hunched at his desk, the glow of his monitor fighting the weak yellow light of the room. The air was stale, a mixture of old paper and lukewarm coffee.
Detective Donald Young entered, holding a thick, horrifying file. "Chief, we got something. We found the missing boy." Donald's face was etched with exhaustion. "He was found dead in the sewer. The body is in a bad state, badly decomposed and partially burned due to the methane in the blockage."
McKay rubbed his chin, his eyes fixed on the screen. "The cause?"
"Extreme blunt force trauma. But Chief, we have a lead. We interviewed people in the neighborhood. One man, walking his dog, reported seeing some drunkard rolling a dumpster late that night."
"A drunkard rolling a dumpster," McKay repeated, his eyes narrowing. "That puts someone at the disposal site during the time frame. It's flimsy, but it's something. You did a wonderful job, Donald. Inform the team. We'll meet in the morning." Donald left, and McKay was left alone with the terrifying knowledge that a killer was operating right under his nose.
***
Sanemi woke up late the next morning, the clock showing 10:00 a.m. The window was streaked with rain. He saw Mia's car parked outside. She didn't go out today. It's the weekend. He felt a faint surge of energy, a good mood that quickly turned into morbid focus.
He brushed his teeth and went downstairs. His mother greeted him.
"Are you planning to go anywhere today?" she asked.
"Doesn't look like it," he replied, listening to the drumming rain.
"Well, I'm going out, but about Mia, I've already prepared something small for you to take over. It would be a good idea if you waited until I come back, so we can go together."
Wait? Sanemi's internal clock was ticking. He had 48 hours, and he needed information now. He had to go alone. "Yeah, whatever," he mumbled, feigning indifference.
His mother, seeing Mia as a respectable, mature woman—Mia was about six years older than Sanemi—thought he should show her proper deference. She went out, leaving Sanemi with his opportunity.
He stood in the hallway. I'm eighteen already. I can decide some things by myself. He rationalized the risk as independence, grabbing the fruit basket—his flimsy, conventional lie, and heading out.
The cool, wet air hit him immediately. The fruit basket felt heavy, the weight of his guilt and his mission. He walked the short distance to Mia's door, which was located in the neighboring apartment. The sound of the rain and his heart were the only noises he heard.
He stopped, lifted his hand, and knocked three times. The sound was unnervingly loud in the quiet hallway. After a moment, the door swung inward. Mia stood there, an image of breathtaking, natural beauty. She was clearly fresh from bed, her long brown hair slightly tousled, and she wore a simple silk robe that hinted at the figure beneath. Even without makeup, her face was stunning—her eyes were warm, and her smile was wide and welcoming.
"Sanemi! Hello," she said, her voice soft with sleepy warmth. "Come in, please."