The Detective is Already Dead

Chapter 88: 6 years ago, Nagisa

For us, it was a routine sight.

"—Nana! I brought lots. Which one do you want?" Afternoon sunlight streamed into the hospital room.

The pink-haired girl who'd called me by my nickname dumped an armful of picture books onto my bed, then started lining them up. She was trying to choose one to read aloud.

"Um, Ali? I'm already twelve. You really don't need to read to me..."

I knew she was doing it to be nice, because I was physically weak and couldn't go outside. I appreciated the thought, of course, but...

"This one, then!"

Yeah, she wasn't listening. She never did.

Instead of her usual diary, which she'd been writing in just a minute ago, she opened a picture book and started reading it, enthusiastically and loudly.

She had an energetic, charming voice.

I got the feeling that just listening to her voice might cure me. ...Though being read to was still a bit too childish.

Gazing fondly at Ali, I spoke to the other girl in the room. "What are you reading, Siesta?"

A girl with white hair was sitting in a chair in the corner with a book. For some reason, she had a code name, "Siesta," and she seemed rather mysterious. She had to be about the same age as Ali and me, but she seemed more mature than you'd expect. She had what I guess you'd call a philosophical air about her; I thought it wouldn't hurt for her to be a little

more childlike and honest...even though I was a kid myself.

"It's the tale of a prince who was both happy and unhappy," Siesta said. I assumed that was a description of the story rather than its title.

A prince who was unhappy but happy... What did that mean? "What's it about?"

Ali had stopped reading the picture book and joined our conversation. Absolutely everything interested her, but she also got bored with things twice as fast as the average person. In a good way, we could probably stand to learn from her free-spirited behavior.

"It's about a statue of a kind-hearted prince who shares his treasures with the poor people of his city." Siesta closed the book gently, then closed her eyes just as softly.

"What a nice guy!" Ali sat down in a chair near me and started swinging her feet back and forth.

So it was a story about a compassionate, wealthy prince helping his citizens? ...So where did the "unhappy" bit come from?

"The thing is..." Siesta opened her eyes, and they were rather sad as she told us the rest of it. "The treasures he gave them were pieces of himself."

"What do you mean?" Ali asked. "He didn't have a lot of money and watches and things?"

"No. The kind statue was covered in gold leaf and decorated with jewels.

He gives his own body away to the poor, bit by bit." "...He loses parts of himself ?"

The thought of that prince's devotion, his literal self-sacrifice, gave me an indescribable feeling. My chest grew tight.

"A ruby sword. Sapphire eyes. The gold leaf that covered his body. When the statue of the prince had given all these things away to the townspeople, he looked very shabby. All he had left was his heart, which was made of lead."

As she said that, Siesta gently placed her hand on the left side of her chest. "That poor statue!" Ali cried out. Even if it was just a story, she felt

genuinely sorry for that prince.

Trying to save somebody, even if it meant sacrificing yourself—it was a noble act, but it also seemed terribly sad.

"But that's not where this story ends."

I raised my head, as if Siesta's voice had pulled me out of sleep. "This statue had someone precious who understood him."

""He did?"" Ali and I asked in unison.

"That's why the title of this book is what it is, too."

Then Siesta began to tell us about the lone swallow who remained with the statue.

The tale of a small black bird who stayed by the side of the one he loved to the very end, even though no one could see why.