Ronwa stepped out of the room, gracefully trailing the long tails of her kimono behind her, surrounded cautiously by the group of men.
She passed through long wooden corridors, decorated with hanging lanterns that swayed gently with the evening breeze.
The closer they got, the more she began to hear faint whispers, until she finally saw a small crowd of servants and police officers, gathered in front of a large closed room.
The atmosphere was heavy with tension, and the scent of ink and damp wood filled the air.
She approached the door with steady steps, but the police officers immediately blocked her path. One of them extended his arm to stop her:
“Sorry, my lady… you can’t go in. The crime scene must not be further contaminated.”
Some of the servants joined in, trying to calm her gently, as if speaking to a child:
“Please, Lady Yoshiko… the scene is too harsh for your young eyes.”
But Ronwa didn’t move.
Instead of shouting or arguing, she sighed deeply, puffed out her cheeks in silent anger, and gave them a cold, firm look.
She spoke in a voice low and sharp as a blade:
“I said… let me through.”
Silence fell.
Confusion crept into their expressions.
She stood there, small as she was, radiating an uncanny authority that was hard to resist.
As if she were a miniature version of her late father.
Finally, after a moment of hesitation, the officers stepped aside with a respectful bow and cleared the way.
“As you wish, my lady.”
Ronwa advanced with steady steps into the room,
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feeling a heavy weight press down on her chest…
It was time to face the truth.
As Ronwa stood in front of the door,
she stared at it with a blank expression, her eyes slowly moving from top to bottom...
(《Oh no… what is this delicate thing… is it paper?! What if I kicked it hard? Would it open? Or would it break and cause a mess?!》)
Then she lightly began to feel the door’s surface with her fingertips,
(《Or maybe… I should throw my whole body at it, like a wrestler? But… what if I get stuck in it like a rabbit caught in a paper trap?!》)
As she examined its edges, a brilliant idea flashed in her mind:
(《What if I bite it? Sometimes biting works on small doors in games.》)
She raised her hand slightly and almost pressed it with her fingertips, but instantly backed away:
(《No way! What if I tear it and they start yelling at me?! I’m a lady here!》)
While her little brain drowned in increasingly dumb catastrophic scenarios, another thought hit her:
(《Maybe I should slap it hard… like the servants in old dramas?…》)
But instead of doing anything, she suddenly cleared her throat, trying to regain her fake composure,
then lifted her chin with a pretend aristocratic air and said with disdain, pointing her hand:
“I… am not wearing gloves today. I don’t want to smudge the door with my fingerprints… you, open it.”
The servants didn’t comment, one simply nodded obediently, stepped forward seriously, and opened the door with ease…
Meanwhile, inside Ronwa’s head:
(《Ah… so that’s how it opens…》)
Her face remained stiff, but on the inside, she was screaming in embarrassment. ???
Dazai stood under the quiet moonlight,
the cold night breeze gently playing with his messy brown hair and long coat,
while in his hands was the black book,
he stared at it as if he were seeing it for the last time...
His lips moved slowly, whispering words so faint they could hardly be heard,
his dark eyes were half-closed, lost in distant memories.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by a soft, calm voice from behind him:
"Good evening, Dazai Osamu."
Dazai turned slowly,
to meet the gaze of Ron, who stood a few steps away,
his face still, and his voice low as usual.
Dazai stopped whispering and quietly observed Ron without speaking.
Ron, with his hands in his pockets, said:
"I've always wondered… why did they call you by that name?"
Dazai didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he lowered his head slightly,
shadows briefly passed over his features,
and the strands of his hair moved gently with the breeze.
Silence…
A heavy silence, as though it carried hundreds of words he had chosen not to say.
Dazai remained silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the moon, as if he were drowning in his dark thoughts. Then, suddenly, he lowered his head calmly and smiled a fake smile, hiding behind it much confusion and regret.
He spoke in his distinct, calm voice, barely audible in the night's breeze:
"I don't want to talk about it..."
His words seeped from his lips like thick fog,
carrying with them a strange stillness, almost making those around him feel the weight pressing on his chest.
He then looked down at the ground, closing his eyes for a moment, as if escaping from a question he didn’t want to answer.
A glimpse of sadness flashed in his eyes, but he quickly masked it with a faint smile,
as though he had decided to shut the doors on everything inside him.
Despite the simplicity of his words, there was something unspoken in his tone,
something that might be larger than just a desire to avoid talking.
