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When the night was over and everything is silent and still again, the detective moved from the emptied parlor and into his bedroom. For once, he didn’t let his eyes linger on the wardrobe that had been converted to a liquor cabinet. He didn’t think about the oh-so-secret pack of cigarettes stowed safely in the storage space under the window seat. He didn’t even eye the pile of paperwork on his desk, still needing another thorough comb through before he’d be ready for court. 

No, this time, he shrugged off his suit jacket, worked off his tie, and pulled a case down from the top shelf of his walk-in closet. From it, he produced a violin. He rarely played it these days; not since leaving London. Really, there was little motivation to without his mother’s plea for a duet with her piano. But tonight, thoughts mulling over holidays past spent far away, in places where Halloween actually mattered, there seemed nothing else that could be done. Nothing else that seemed fitting than to pull the instrument out, tune it, and play, rusty though he was. 

Back against the opened window, lit by the moonlight and stars, he tucked violin under chin, raised the bow with practiced hand, and played. The sound swept over the darkened yard, carried by the chill breeze. Hakuba didn’t worry about waking anyone, even at this hour. The property was large enough to hold it all in, and the rest of the household had long since gone to bed. 

He was alone and it didn’t matter. There was no need to seek praise or approval, no search for warm and empty comfort. Just the music… and that was enough. 

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