A week later, the Police Department held a memorial service.
The officers who died in the line of duty would be buried in the public cemetery. The police awarded the dead Honor Medals, provided compensation to the families, and handled the funerals of those at higher ranks.
The sky was gray, and the road was dotted with puddles of varying sizes. The officers attending the memorial service were dressed in black and white formal wear, with white chrysanthemums pinned to their lapels. Hosts stood by the cemetery gate, offering incense money; Kinosaki Shoujin spoke as a representative, addressing the crowd.
Most of the deceased families had already held funerals, leaving only ashes to be placed in the Bone Storage Hall. Minamoto Tamako, wearing a black dress, stood among the crowd and looked up to see the neatly arranged urn niches.
The entire memorial service was not as solemn as imagined. After offering flowers, everyone gathered to smoke and chatted for a few minutes before dispersing.
In less than an hour, the memorial service was over. Guests left in twos and threes, and when passing by Minamoto Tamako, they couldn’t help but glance at her. Director Moriki advised her to rest, but she insisted on staying, leaving Moriki with nothing more to say.
When everyone had left, Minamoto Tamako stood alone in the cemetery, turning her head to look at the row of tombstones, feeling a void in her heart.
Her grandfather couldn’t even be properly buried and honored; his bones were devoured by insects and ants... Was she really doing the right thing?
She recalled Instructor Shirota’s teachings: If one disregards the law for personal reasons, where is the justice? Without justice, how can there be righteousness?
Those who wield the sword succeed everywhere, yet they can become the sacrifice sharpening the sword at any moment.
Kazama Tatsuya wore a suit and a broad-brimmed hat, standing outside the cemetery, watching Minamoto Tamako’s back through the fence.
He held a chrysanthemum in his right hand, and the empty sleeve of his left arm fluttered in the wind.
"Aren’t you going to comfort her?" Kazama Tatsuya turned around and looked behind him.
By the roadside trees, Fushimi Roku sat in a wheelchair, finally remembering what he had forgotten and coming to attend the memorial service.
"I don’t console. You made the mess, why should I clean it up?" Fushimi Roku glanced askew, never missing an opportunity to kick someone when they’re down: "Even if she cries to death, or hangs herself in despair, it’s your fault. How can you expect others to bear the consequences of your mistakes?"
Kazama Tatsuya unusually didn’t refute, nor did he use his rank to suppress Fushimi Roku. He sighed deeply, as if wanting to expel the accumulated vexation in his chest, but to no avail, so he just took a cigarette out of the box with one hand, lit it, and inhaled deeply, feeling slightly better.
"Yes, it’s my fault."
Kazama Tatsuya nodded: "If it can make her feel a bit better, I’d even be willing to die... Chihime is dead, someone must pay for that loss."
"Then, you might as well go die." Fushimi Roku said.
Kazama Tatsuya turned to leave, but Fushimi Roku hurriedly grabbed him, the wheelchair following like a little train: "Are you crazy? I was joking! If you die, wouldn’t she be even more upset? What do you think she made such huge sacrifices for?"
"I’m just a senior to her; she doesn’t have to hide the truth for my sake..."
"Bullshit! Senior this, senior that, don’t flatter yourself. Could a senior really be more important to her than her grandfather?" Fushimi Roku wished he could kick him, but his leg was in a cast, and his left hand was slung over his shoulder, so he couldn’t muster any strength.
"Then what is it for?" Kazama Tatsuya stopped, red-eyed, and asked.
"Because you’re still alive."
Fushimi Roku paused, then said: "The deceased are dead, beyond redemption; the living are still alive, with a future... it’s as simple as that."
Kazama Tatsuya was momentarily speechless. He looked at Minamoto Tamako again and suddenly felt Fushimi Roku’s actions were particularly cruel.
"Don’t pretend to be deep, like a fool," Fushimi Roku pulled out a few sheets of yellowed notepaper from under his seat cushion and handed them over: "Here, take this and give it to Minamoto Tamako. It might help her regain her spirits."
"What is this?" Kazama Tatsuya took the papers.
"Her grandfather’s diary. I managed to find this after prying information from Kujo Yua... Uh, I found it at her family home." Fushimi Roku instructed: "You know how to say it when the time comes, right?"
Kazama Tatsuya scanned the contents of the pages and instantly understood. He nodded, hesitated for a moment, pressed down on his hat with one hand, and quickly walked into the cemetery.
Fushimi Roku watched the two’s backs, seeing Kazama Tatsuya take the initiative to speak, and the two faced each other, with a particularly heavy atmosphere. He handed the stack of papers to Minamoto Tamako, who trembled as she learned it was her grandfather’s relic, and took it with shaking hands.
The old man next door, Mr. Kuru, gave me a suggestion. If I sprayed some pesticide on the plants, it could poison that vicious dog.
If anyone pursued the matter later, I would be justified: What is wrong with spraying pesticide on your own plants? It’s not purposeful poisoning; one can only blame the dog’s owner for not keeping it in check.
But in my heart, I know spraying pesticide is deliberately intended to kill the dog.
March 11th, Light Rain
The healthiest peony bush died.
A few days ago, I was even boasting about it to Mr. Kuru, and he praised my gardening skills. It’s truly ironic; before the flowering period was even over, it withered away. Mr. Kuru advised me again, saying that flowers and grass were life, and a dog is a life too. One life for another, it’s only natural. I found it reasonable but also somehow wrong, so I still didn’t spray the pesticide.