Why. 

Why, why, why?

She’d come for the week. She’d insisted on doing something special. On reliving and rebuilding memories. It’ll be fun, she’d said. You’ll have a splendid time, she’d said.

Lanterns, food from street vendors, balloons, carnival-style games, traditional-style clothing, taiko drums, the works. A festival. Summer festival. They’d apparently gone to one when he was young – four years old? – before they’d left for England. He’d worn a little yukata, gotten lost in the crowd, tried to catch a turtle in the koi pond. 

“You. Will. Love. It.” She’d said. 

But what she hadn’t said was that it was being held in Osaka. 

One very long train ride down, listening to his mother’s rambling the entire way, Hakuba really only had one thing on his mind: would he be there? 

They’d checked into their hotel. She’d presented him with a brand new yukata, which was not unlike the one he’d worn when he was a little boy, and despite how tired he was, they’d gone out to join the celebration. The Superintendent General would join them ‘later,’ whatever that meant. Hakuba suspected that meant ‘not at all,’ but that was yet to be seen.

Ridiculous, he thought. Of the three of them, the patriarch was the only one who didn’t stand out in the crowd like a very tall, blonde tree. Not that Marion cared; she looked quite content showing off her oddly-accented Japanese, pretending to be a tourist. That was fine for her; she was a British citizen, after all.

But the young detective?

God help him if Hattori Heiji happened to see him there.