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The sun hangs winter bright in the sky, cold and clear, and Yoru, walking back from class, rounds the corner on a neighbourhood street to see a body in the park.
“He maybe looked like a yakuza,” she tells Kamiyama later, slicing another forkful off the piece of cake. Metal tines catch the light, throwing it back at the window before they sink into the slice.
“Crime boss?” Kamiyama asks. He doesn’t take another sip of coffee; the cup in front of him is empty.
Yoru hums, the sound ambiguous. “Not sure.” The window’s light dances across her outstretched fingers. “He was missing a finger on his right hand.”
“That doesn’t sound very interesting.” Kamiyama folds his hands in front of him on the table. This coffee shop isn’t as good after the owner changed. It’s too bad.
“His body was sitting on a swing, but his head was set at the top of the slide,” Yoru says. She sets the fork down, plate empty. The sun glances off the shiny edge of the plate, like it bounced off the shiny silver of the slide’s surface, and rakes across her cheek. “He was wearing sunglasses, and there was a hydrangea in his mouth.”
“Ahh,” Kamiyama says, raising a hand to support his chin. “That’s more interesting.” His voice is warm, posture opening up. Yoru raises a hand to block the light, and watches the tiny micro expressions dance across his face, belying his thoughts.
Most people would just see his blank face and stop looking. Yoru wonders, if his face was truly blank, how different would it look?
Across from her, cold window light illuminates Kamiyama as he sighs, like some kind of vacant god. “I suppose you called the police?”
Yoru hums, noncommittal. She doesn’t believe in god, anyway.