The Floorboard's Confession

The Agency office fell into a weighted silence, broken only by the creak of floorboards as Dazai crossed to the corner near the supply closet. Atsushi watched him kneel, his movements deceptively casual, as if he were simply tying a shoe. Ranpo adjusted his glasses, pupils already sharpening behind the lenses. "You realize," Ranpo said, "that if you've had a classified Port Mafia file under our feet for two years, I'm going to be deeply offended I didn't notice." "You were busy solving cases I deliberately left unsolved to keep you entertained," Dazai replied, prying a loose board with his fingernails. It popped free with a dry gasp. "Consider this my apology gift." Atsushi leaned in, heart hammering. The book lay open on his desk, its final chapter still glowing faintly with words that rearranged themselves as he watched: *"Under the board, the truth waits. Do not read it alone."* Dazai's hand emerged from the dark cavity holding a slim manila folder, yellowed at the edges, bound with red string that had long since frayed to rust. He didn't open it immediately. Instead, he held it up to the light, letting dust motes dance across its surface like tiny ghosts. "I never looked inside," he said, voice uncharacteristically quiet. "I was told to bury it and forget. By someone who knew what would happen if I didn't." "Who?" Atsushi asked. Dazai's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Myself." Ranpo snatched the folder before anyone could protest, snapping the string with a practiced flick. Inside lay a single photograph — the same one from the book, but older, its edges soft from handling. And beneath it, a letter written in elegant, sloping handwriting that Atsushi recognized with a jolt. It was Dazai's handwriting. "That's impossible," Atsushi breathed. "This file is two years old. The book just appeared last week." "Time doesn't move in a straight line for this story," Ranpo murmured, reading over Atsushi's shoulder. "The author wrote the ending before the beginning. And the author…" He trailed off, looking up at Dazai with an expression that was part awe, part accusation. Dazai took the letter, reading it silently. His fingers trembled — barely, but Atsushi caught it. The office felt suddenly colder, as if the very air had been siphoned into the page. "It says I wrote the book," Dazai said, his tone flat, hollow. "But I don't remember writing it. I don't remember hiding this file. I don't remember any of this." "Then who did?" Atsushi whispered. Dazai turned the letter over. On the back, in fresh blue ink, was a single line the book had just finished writing: *"You will remember when you need to. Turn the page, Dazai. It's time."*