It was another sunny morning. Quiet. Peaceful. Almost too peaceful.
The detective groaned as he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes like someone waking from a war-torn dream.
"Harumi," he called from the room, voice low and gravelly. "Coffee."
Harumi was already awake. She moved through the kitchen with calm efficiency, hair tied up, sleeves rolled. She ran the house like clockwork and, more often than not, lent a hand with our cases too.
I was already in the office, flipping through a file—old reports, cold leads. I spent most mornings here now, learning from the detective directly.
She handed him the cup as he passed. "One sugar, no milk."
He gave a short nod, eyes still half-closed, and shuffled into the office.
The room smelled of ink, paper, and memories. He sat down in his chair, cracked open the newspaper, and took a long sip.
The quiet didn't last.
The bell above the front door chimed, and an old woman stepped inside. She had curly gray hair, brown eyes sharp with something deeper than fear—something like desperation.
She looked around slowly, clutching her handbag tightly, and then locked eyes with the detective.
"I need help," she said. "A girl has vanished."