The First Unwritten Page

Atsushi’s voice faltered mid-sentence. He was reading aloud from a slim, cream-colored book with no author’s name on the spine—just a title embossed in blood-red ink: *The Agency’s Future Cases, Volume III*. The cover felt warm against his fingers, like it had been held too long by someone with a fever. “*...and the warehouse at Pier 7 will contain not the stolen painting, but a single shoebox holding twelve human molars, each etched with a different date,*” he recited, the words tasting like copper. From his desk, Dazai lounged with his feet propped up, reading a different page of the same book upside down. “Boring. Ranpo deduced that last Tuesday during lunch.” “I did not!” Ranpo called from the sofa, half-hidden behind a mountain of candy wrappers. He wasn’t even looking at the book. “I simply realized that if someone steals a million-yen painting, they wouldn’t leave empty-handed. Molars are more portable. Elementary.” Kunikida sighed, adjusting his glasses. “Can we focus? That book is a hoax or a curse, and we have actual paperwork.” “It’s not a hoax,” Atsushi said, his throat tightening. “Listen to this.” He turned to chapter three, the pages sticking slightly as if damp. “‘The call will come at 2:47 PM. A woman’s voice. She will report a missing person last seen near the waterfront. The case number will be—’” The office phone rang. Everyone froze. The clock on the wall read exactly 2:47. Atsushi’s hand trembled. “No way.” Dazai snatched the receiver, placing it on speaker without a word. A woman’s voice, breathless and cracking, flooded the room: “This is Inspector Hoshino from the Yokohama Police. We have a missing person case—last seen near Pier 7. Case number 2047-Beta-9. The details are... unusual.” Ranpo was suddenly standing, candy wrapper falling from his slack fingers. His eyes were sharp, no longer lazy. “Read the next line, tiger-boy.” Atsushi looked down at the page. The words seemed darker, heavier. “‘Before the caller finishes her sentence, the detective with bandages on his wrists will interrupt and say: ‘We’ll find him. He’s in the ventilation shaft of the abandoned crane at the pier’s north end. Tell the medics to bring bolt cutters.’” Dazai’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He spoke into the phone, voice light but cold: “We’ll find him. He’s in the ventilation shaft of the abandoned crane at the pier’s north end. Tell the medics to bring bolt cutters.” Silence on the line. Then: “How did you—?” “We’re detectives,” Dazai said, and hung up. The office was utterly still. Atsushi dropped the book as if it burned. It landed open on the floor, and the page he had just read was now blank, as though the words had never been written.