The funny thing about it is that she sees the photos more clearly now than she had when she remembered. Looking back at this other girl’s life, she notices things. How bored Light looks when he doesn’t know the camera is pointed at him. How absent Soichiro is from the mundane pictures, present only in portraits and ceremonies, and the occasional
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"There you are. I was wondering how long you could hide from me."
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He recognises the box straight away, of course. Sits down beside her, lifting the patterned brown lid with the right hand he shouldn't have. The fake leather corners pad the thing as he rests it down - and there they are, all the envelopes labelled in his mother's loose, loopy writing. He's been through the box a few times, mostly for something to do, but not since he was in middle school.
So there's a distance to him as he flips through the envelopes by the corners, with the very edges of his fingers; as he takes one of them out - the yard, as it happens - and pages through the pictures just as carefully. It's as if the scenes in the photographs, the small boy who comes and goes, are nothing to do with who and what he is now. And that's true for everyone, isn't it?
"You don't recognise any of this. Not the pictures, or the box?"
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"Soichiro and Sachiko."
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