Chapter Text
Year 2025.
The house was bigger than Hattori had really expected: two stories, a small, picturesque garden at the entrance, and an attic which, according to his mother, was an absolute must-have for every family. Though, if you asked him, it was just a bunch of unnecessary stairs.
"Look how nice the foyer looks with that mirror we bought," his mother said, carrying a box of blankets while glancing sideways at her husband. "And thanks to the movers coming early, everything’s already almost in place."
Because yes, thanks to the moving company, most of the furniture was already there. So Shizuka was happy. Heiji, walking behind her with two heavy boxes in his arms, didn’t look the slightest bit thrilled.
"Yeah, yeah. Very pretty," he muttered with a trace of annoyance. "Too bad my friends weren’t included."
"Heiji," his father warned him without even raising his voice, as if that alone was enough to remind him that the move hadn’t been up for debate.
Heiji just huffed and fell silent. Setting one of the boxes down by the couch, he let out another sigh and stepped away. He honestly had zero motivation to help with a house he didn’t even want to be in.
A few minutes later, after going up a staircase he stumbled upon, he stood in front of the attic door. Hattori never understood his mother’s love for Western-style houses, but at least it gave him the chance to explore an attic—something not very common in traditional Japanese homes. When he pushed the door open, a wave of dust hit his nose. There was nothing inside except a small closed window, some old furniture—half of which were covered with once-white sheets—and a small desk against the wall, half-hidden beneath one of those worn-out cloths.
He stepped closer and pulled the cloth off, coughing slightly from the dust, revealing an old rusted metal lamp, just as ancient as the desk. Curious, he pressed the switch, and to his surprise, the lamp flickered and lit up.
"Huh… Now that’s a miracle," he murmured, leaning in.
Underneath it lay a navy blue hardcover notebook. Dust clung to it, so he gave it a quick shake and revealed the drawing of a cute red bow on the cover.
Flipping it open, he noticed the first few pages were already filled in. The ink looked a bit faded, and the paper had yellowed with time, but it was still legible. Skimming through more pages, he saw that the final ones were blank.
"What is this…?" He examined the first page, and though he didn’t know why, something about the handwriting felt… brilliant.
Dragging over a chipped chair, he sat down and started flipping through more of the notebook. There were no names or dates, but the pages clearly held detailed descriptions of what seemed to be criminal cases—and their solutions. Really good ones, too.
He was just about to say something out loud when his mother’s voice called from downstairs.
"Heiji! I really need you to come help with the boxes."
Heiji rolled his eyes.
"Coming!" he replied, irritated.
Giving the notebook another shake, he tucked it under his arm and headed back down the stairs, still frowning—because deep down… a part of him already wanted to keep reading.
★‡★
...And that’s how I realized he was the killer.
After that, getting the evidence to back up my theory wasn’t hard—I just had to make him confess with the right trap.
I let him think he had everything under control. Watched him as he tried to manipulate the witness statements, playing with his words like he was cleverer than everyone else. But I had already cornered him the moment I noticed the missing ring in the photo.
Just one detail. A tiny one.
But sometimes, the smallest thing is what screams the truth—and I made sure the old man noticed it.
So, the inspector was satisfied.
I wasn’t.
I don’t like it when people die over something as stupid as a misunderstood will.
Anyway, case closed.
Heiji let out a breath, not even bothering to hide the look of genuine awe frozen on his face.
"What kind of mind writes something like this…?" he murmured, lying back on his pillows with the notebook open on his chest.
The whole case—from the beginning to that sharp, concise conclusion—had something about it that drew him in. It wasn’t just the author’s clear intelligence; it was the way they told the story: direct, observant, no fluff.
It was like being inside the head of someone who was always two steps ahead.
Honestly, it was impressive.
Who the hell was this person?
That question made him flip back to the very first page of the notebook. It was blank.
Well… almost. In slightly faded blue ink, the author’s name was written there—first and last.
‘E..ga.a Conan’
And once again, he thought it was a strange name—nothing Japanese about it; it even reminded him of a famous British author from the nineteenth century.
The problem was the surname—completely illegible. It looked like time had eaten away the missing letters, which honestly irritated him.
It seemed to Heiji that this person, Conan, wasn’t exactly an adult when he wrote all that. If anything, maybe around his own age, maybe…
And that bothered him too, though he wouldn’t admit it out loud.
Was he a talented writer or an experienced detective? He wanted to know.
Closing the notebook carefully, he placed it on the nightstand, right next to his freshly folded uniform.
It was late—past eleven, according to the clock with glowing numbers still sitting inside one of the boxes in the corner of the room.
“Tsk… I’ve got class tomorrow,” he muttered, turning over in bed.
But even as he closed his eyes, the deductions of that unknown detective kept circling in his head.
A guy who wrote about solving complicated murder cases. Fiction or not, Hattori smiled.
“Let’s see what you hit me with tomorrow, genius.”
And turning over, pulling the blanket over himself, he fell asleep.
★‡★
Four days after Hattori moved into the new house and accidentally stumbled upon that old, worn-out hardcover notebook in the dusty attic—which he had now read, maybe, twice for each of its thirty written pages—you could say…
He was obsessed.
Each and every one of the cases was honestly brilliant, without exception, as if the guy who wrote them didn’t even have to try to see what others couldn’t.
By now, Hattori was completely convinced that the author wasn’t some amateur or kid playing detective.
That notebook had been written by someone truly exceptional.
And the desire to know who it was only kept growing stronger.
He had searched. Of course he had.
He even casually asked his mother if she knew who had lived in the house before them.
She hadn’t paid much attention to the question, but mentioned that, according to the purchase documents, two elderly sisters had lived there before. One of them had passed away long ago, and the other had moved in with one of her sons somewhere on the outskirts of Osaka.
And since he had plenty of free time, he’d even spoken with a couple of elderly neighbors who might’ve known the original owners—but none of them had told him anything useful.
Truth be told, being new to the neighborhood and not having any friends didn’t bother him that much anymore. The notebook had him so caught up that he barely remembered he was in a different part of the city, far from everything familiar.
He was so wrapped up in investigating the mysterious notebook that everything else had faded into the background.
Still, he hadn’t found anything. Not a single clue as to who Conan was, where he came from, or why someone like that would leave such a brilliant notebook forgotten in an attic.
That very morning, before heading off to class, he was lying on his bed with the notebook in his hands, staring at the author’s name, trying to mentally fill in the missing letters of that damned last name.
But nothing—only growing frustration.
“Conan… who are you?” he murmured, getting to his feet, pacing the room as he flipped through the notebook again.
The old man was called at 4:42 p.m. Suspicious death in an antique shop that had been closed for a year, the report said. I went with him.
The shop owner’s body hung from the ceiling, perfectly upright, his eyes still open.
There were no signs of struggle. Just a note written in blood at his feet:
‘Forgive me for opening the clock.’
But there was no clock.
That strange mention…
Many of the written cases included it: “the old man.”
Who the hell was the old man Conan kept referring to?
Damn…
He wanted to understand.
Sighing, he walked through the room, now empty of all the boxes that once overflowed with personal belongings; everything had been put away days ago.
Then, Hattori dropped into the chair in front of his small desk, switched on the lamp, and placed the notebook on the wooden surface, running his hands through his hair as if he wanted to pull it out from how frustrated he felt at the lack of information.
Because, come on, he wasn’t stupid; it had also crossed his mind that the deductions were so precise, they might actually be real.
It just wasn’t possible for such a brilliant mind to go unnoticed, for those solved cases to not be found in any police record.
But without dates, names, or specific locations, he hadn’t been able to find anything.
Not even his father, with all his access, could help him.
All he had were the stories in the notebook… and no real clues to prove if they were true.
Then, his eyes landed squarely on the first blank page of the notebook—the one that followed all the written deductions.
Though slightly yellowed, it was clean and smooth…
Without really knowing why, he picked up one of the pens lying nearby and, without thinking too much about it, wrote:
«I don’t know if you’re a good writer or an exceptional detective, but you’re incredible. I wish I could meet you.»
Then, taking a deep breath and feeling ridiculous, he let go of the pen and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
Suddenly, the sound of the living room clock reached him, chiming the hour.
“Tsk… Guess it’s time for school,” he muttered, getting up heavily.
He grabbed his bookbag and, checking to make sure he had all the materials he needed for class, stepped forward to turn off the desk lamp—but then, something happened.
A line of blue ink appeared on the page, just below his message.
«Who are you?»
The ink was fresh, vivid, and still slightly wet.
Startled and thinking he must be hallucinating, Hattori froze. Completely still.
“…What the hell?”
And then, dropping his bookbag, he sat back down, eyes locked on those two words. In disbelief.
Feeling his heart pound so hard it hurt as he picked up the same pen, realizing his hand was trembling—cold.
«Who are you?»
As soon as he finished writing, another word appeared. Just one.
«Conan.»
★‡★‡★
By: Yahir Abisai