A Detective and a Middle School Student Work Together to Defeat Lupin

Days after the meeting at the café with Chestina, the case of the lost memory truly frustrated me. I had tried various methods: taking Chestina back to places that might be connected to her uncle, asking her to recall even the tiniest detail from when she was four years old, even trying to connect the dots from her "sad" feeling. The results were nil. My brain, usually lazy but effective in solving Lupin's riddles, seemed to have completely jammed when faced with something as intangible as memory.

"How is it, Arez?" Chestina asked every time we met. Her eyes radiated hope, which made me feel guilty for not being able to find the answer.

"Um... still under investigation, Chestina," I always replied diplomatically. In truth, all I was looking for was a way to escape this case.

It was Monday, and as usual, the school cafeteria was the hub of gossip and the latest news. I was engrossed in my lunch when Kalet suddenly clapped my shoulder with excessive enthusiasm.

"Yo, Arez! Have you heard the latest gossip?!" he exclaimed, his face beaming.

"What gossip now? About Mr. Alan being a secret agent?" I retorted lazily.

"Even crazier than that!" Kalet lowered his voice, leaning closer. "It's about the dark history from 45 years ago at our school!"

I frowned. "Dark history? What's that?" I had never heard of such a thing. Usually, I knew all the latest school gossip, even though I often pretended not to care because I genuinely didn't.

Chestina, sitting beside us, also leaned in. "I heard too. They say a journalism club just revived the gossip. They're short on interesting news material, so they're bringing back an old story that had been lost."

"Yep! They say it was a big sensation back then, but no one knew the truth. All the data was minimal, just rumors," Kalet added. "Now, they're trying to find out again."

I wasn't too interested. Dark history, ghosts, or whatever it was, it was as boring to me as actual history lessons. Especially if the data was minimal, it was just a waste of time. I preferred cases with clear riddles.

"Just a waste of time," I mumbled. "Better to find out who keeps farting in Science Class 2."

Kalet and Chestina just chuckled, but they continued to discuss the gossip. I ignored them, focusing back on my food.

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Days passed, and the gossip about the dark history from 45 years ago became more widely discussed at school. The journalism club was seriously investigating; they even put up old posters on the bulletin board, asking students to provide information if anyone knew anything. Some students even started getting scared, imagining ghosts or curses in our school. I remained indifferent.

Until one afternoon, while I was waiting for Kalet, who was still practicing basketball, since I was idle, I wandered around the school club area that I rarely visited. I saw several old cardboard boxes stacked near the club storage. It seemed to be old stuff from inactive or unpopular clubs.

Since I was idle, I opened one of the boxes just to pass the time. It contained a pile of old comics, worn school magazines, and several yellowed theater scripts. These must be remnants from old comic, wall magazine, and literature clubs from that era. I grabbed a tattered comic book, its cover torn here and there. The title was, "Mystery of the Night Corridor". The comic looked innocent, like a regular children's comic. I flipped through it. The drawings were simple; the story was about a child detective solving a ghost case at school.

But, when I reached the last page, my eyes caught something strange. In the corner of the last panel, amidst random scribbles, there was a tiny, barely visible drawing. The drawing was a silhouette of the school building from an unusual angle, complete with a faint symbol resembling a small flame. And below it, tiny, almost unreadable writing: "Not just smoke, but tears."

I froze. This... this wasn't part of a regular comic story. It was too specific, too hidden. As if deliberately disguised so that only those who truly searched would find it.

I then picked up another school magazine. It contained extracurricular activities, short stories, and poems. As I read one poem about 'painful farewells,' at the bottom of the poem was a small sketch. The sketch showed a classroom with overturned tables and chairs, and a broken window, where the shadow of a student seemed to be fleeing. And below it, a hidden sentence: "Laughter turned into screams, where the pen bore witness."

Cold sweat began to trickle down my forehead. This wasn't a coincidence. This was too many coincidences. I opened an old theater script. Among the dialogues of a comedy play, behind the last page, there were handwritten coordinates in faded ink, and beside them, a miniature drawing of an inverted hourglass. "Time is always the judge, before the truth disappears."

I began to piece together these scattered riddles. Comics, magazines, theater scripts... all from the same era, about 45 years ago. And all had hidden clues, not explicitly stated, as if integrated into the work itself.

Two things suddenly struck me:

First, the students from 45 years ago might have wanted to convey something to future generations. They couldn't speak directly, perhaps due to trauma, or something prevented them. So they hid these clues in their works, like a message in a bottle adrift in the ocean of time. This wasn't just mere gossip or myth. This was a dark and fatal tragedy that traumatized them, and they wanted the truth to be revealed in the future.

Second, Chestina's memory about her uncle. Her uncle attended this school 45 years ago. What a coincidence. It felt too perfect to be just a coincidence. I assumed this had something to do with Chestina's uncle. The words that made Chestina cry when she was four, the dark tragedy at school, and these hidden clues... they all felt interconnected. This was no longer just about finding a memory; this was about uncovering a truth buried for decades.

I grabbed my phone. My hands were trembling. This was too big for me to solve alone. I needed expert help.

I immediately called Rose Claret.

"Hello, Arez," Rose's voice sounded relaxed on the other end. "What's up? Already missing your detective trench coat?"

"Rose! This is serious!" I said, my voice tinged with panic. "I found something. It's about the dark history gossip of my school, 45 years ago. I think... I think it's not just gossip. It's more than that. And I need your help."

There was a moment of silence. Then Rose's voice turned serious. "Interesting! Tell me. The details."