This was written for Poirot Cafe's third 10k Contest, with the theme "Lost and Found".
Warning for brief mention of suicidal thoughts. Like, really really brief, but still there.

Buried Treasures

"Hey dad, it's me...sorry I haven't talked to you in a while. I've just been busy with school and stealing and everything, and I just … wanted you to know that I haven't forgotten about you..."

He trailed off, biting down on his tongue. As much as he wished those words were true, he had a hard time believing them. It's not like they were a lie either, more like a blurry gray speck somewhere on the spectrum.

"I haven't forgotten..." he repeated quietly, almost inaudible. But he knew that it didn't matter if he whispered or screamed. He could have this conversation in his head, for all it mattered, but saying the words out loud .. made it more real. Made him feel like he was actually talking to his dad.

"Anyway, it's … - you know what day it is, don't you? I don't have to tell you. Mom left before I woke up. Like every year. She tries to hide it, but I can tell that she still misses you. I do too. It sucks, you know? Growing up without a dad. I guess I'm used to it by now, but when I was younger... I don't know if you were watching, if you can do that at all, but I was so jealous of the other kids. All my friends and classmates were always talking about the cool things they were doing with their dads, and I hated it. I hated that they had the one thing I wanted above everything … but I couldn't have it and it was just so … unfair. But that's life, I guess. Unfair."

Unfair. The word repeated in his head as he slowly sank down to the floor in front of the life-sized portrait. He hated it. He hated it so much when, in fifth grade, Keiji told him about he soccer game his father took him to. He hated it when, in sixth grade, Keiji boasted about the road trip he and his father went on during summer break. He never spoke to him again, and he hated a lot of people for a long time. Sports games, movies, theme parks, and all the other amazing things the other children did with their dads – god he'd hated it so much. He even hated Aoko. Because she had a dad, and he didn't.

"I scared them all away, you know?" The bitter laugh tainted his mouth with its taste. "I couldn't stand it, so I told them all to go away. And they did, eventually. Except Aoko."

His fingers drew invisible circles on the wooden floor.

"She was too stubborn. And she was really mad at me for being mad at her for something she had no control over. I mean, she was right, obviously. It wasn't her fault. She told me … what was it... I quote: Maybe Aoko still has her dad, but her mom is gone and Aoko is not going all crazy at everybody who has one. Because it's not their fault, and it's not Aoko's fault either."

The corners of his mouth quirked up for a short moment, before falling down again.

"Did you know that I blamed myself? Stupid, right? Or maybe not, I don't know. I thought that, maybe if I'd gone to your performance that night, maybe I could have done something. Maybe I could have saved you. Me, a scrawny eight-year old. When the truth is, if I'd been there, I'd probably be dead too."

He drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, failing to mention the times where he'd wished he'd gone, even if it meant his death.

"I get that it's hard for mom, but it still sucks. It's not easy for me either, and we could be in this together, but instead we're both alone. She runs away every year and I … I don't know what I'm doing. Can't blame her though. Sometimes I really just want to run away myself. But then I look at her, and … I don't think it would do anything. It's not helping her, so why would it make things better for me? A dead parent, or husband … isn't something you can run away from, is it? It's always there, inside you … that hole that you can't fill with anything."

His eyes were hot and burning, a sign of the coming tears. Usually he would swallow them, push them back inside, put on his poker face. But he was tired and there was no one around. Just him.

"I wish-" The first sob broke free.

"I wish- I wish you could talk back. Say something to me. Just once, just today."

Because I can't remember what your voice sounds like, he added mentally.

A hard swallow, a shaky breath. "It's silly, right? I mean, I know it's impossible. I just-"

He drew in another unsteady breath, suppressing the urge to wipe away the tears. He would allow them, just for now.

"Are you really up there somewhere? Watching and listening? I try to believe that, I really do, but sometimes … it's hard. How am I supposed to believe that you're there, when all I get in response is nothing? Just silence, always silence-"

And silence was exactly what he got. He knew it, knew that there would be nothing but his own breath, the distant sound of traffic, the birds chirping outside his window. He knew it and it still ripped the wound wide open. Aching, burning, crippling pain spread through him.
He closed his eyes and dove right into the pain. One moment to drown in it, one moment to remind himself of what he had lost.

Then he opened his eyes and swallowed everything. Air, his pain, the longing, the loneliness, the anger and the tears. One big gulp and he was ready to fool everyone, including himself.
"Gotta go, school. Talk to you later."

He picked up Aoko and fell into his role, welcoming the comfort of mindless routine. Of course she knew what day it was, and he could see the question 'Are you okay?' in her eyes before she even opened her mouth. He flipped her skirt, loudly proclaimed the color of her panties – even though there was no one around to hear it – and wisely took off before her bag could hit his head.

She caught up to him at a red street light, panting and flustered, her cheeks red and her hair messier than usual. But she wasn't mad. And again, he saw the question coming.
"Say, Aoko-" he looked pointedly at her chest, "-did they grow? Are you a girl after all? I thought the day would never come!"
"Bakaito!" came the expected response and he danced around the street light, avoiding her bag that she swung around like a baton. As soon as the light changed to green, he darted across the street, her angry shouts following him.
He kept it up all the way to school, keeping her busy and annoyed, so she wouldn't start to think. So he wouldn't have to think.

It got harder once class started. He suddenly found himself alone with his thoughts, not able to focus on the lesson.
Bags started exploding, chairs fell over for no – apparent – reason, smoke filled the whole room multiple times, notebooks and pens disappeared, and students emerged from the pink smoke with wigs on their heads and their school uniforms turned inside out.
It was exhausting for everyone involved – students, teachers and the prankster. He became more ruthless as the day wore on, and he knew it. But fear can make you careless, and he was scared.
The thought of what would be after school, when there were no distractions, no noise, was terrifying.
But for all the pranks and mayhem, he couldn't stop time. The last bell rang, announcing the end of the school day, and the classroom emptied.
"Kaito..."
"I'm fine." He forced a smile, shouldered his bag and left, not waiting for Aoko. It was tiring to keep up the act and he needed time alone.

The door clicked shut behind him. An invisible weight kept him in place as his mind wandered back to that night, exactly ten years ago.

He wanted to see his dad perform, he begged his parents, pouted and threw a tamper tantrum, crocodile tears included. But it was a late show and his parents told him that he needed to sleep. His promises to go straight to bed after the show fell on deaf ears. And it wasn't like his parents to be this strict, he didn't understand. Now he wondered if they'd known that something would happen.

Eventually he realized that he wouldn't win this battle and he gave up, watching his dad through the window when he left. If only he'd known. He would have clung to his dad, he would have done everything to make him stay home. But he didn't know and hours later he woke up to voices at the front door. He perched on the stairs, quiet as a mouse, eavesdropping – even though he knew that you shouldn't eavesdrop.
They were talking too quietly for him to understand everything, but he took a peek and saw two police officers and it sounded like his mom was crying. She never cried. And that's how he knew that something bad had happened. Something really bad.
When the officers left, his mom just stood there, facing the door, her shoulders shaking. She stood there for a long time, and he sat on the stairs for a long time, watching her, too scared to go down and ask what was wrong. He was afraid of the answer.

The memory faded, and he felt like now he understood why his mom had been rooted to this very spot. Maybe her bones too felt like they were filled with lead, maybe her heart felt like it weighed a thousand tons.

One foot in front of the other, he walked into the living room, aimlessly wandering around the room, before moving into the kitchen and then back to the living room – burying his hands in his pockets, taking them out again, letting a coin roll over his knuckles, putting the coin away. He didn't know what to do with himself. Maybe going home had been a bad idea. There was nothing here to distract him from the memories that kept infiltrating his mind since he'd woke up that morning.
He wasn't even sure what the worst part was – that they kept coming in an endless stream, or that they were so blurry that it made him wonder if they were even real.

He stopped in front of the book shelf and skimmed over the titles. Romance and horror novels, probably his mother's, books about stage magic, a book about cursed jewels. The sight of the last one drew out a surprised laugh and he wondered why he never noticed it. Not that it mattered at this point, it wasn't a secret anymore.
His eyes settled on an English copy of 'Houdini on Magic'. Old and worn, it looked like a book that had been read too many times, like too many curious fingers had flipped through the pages.
He reached for it, but hesitated before his fingers touched it. It had been one of his father's favorites. A long time ago, he asked him why. And his father had smiled, fondly, and said "It was a gift from my teacher.". The look in his eyes told him how much his father had treasured this book.
As a child, he would often look at it, wondering what was so special about it, but it took an explanation from his dad and some time for him to grasp the concept of sentimental value. He also wondered what it was about. But since it was written in English, he couldn't read it. Then his father died and things like books became meaningless.

Now, a faint echo of that curiosity sparked up. Whispering an apology to his father, he completed the motion, taking the book from the place it had occupied for years. It slid out, leaving a clear line in the layer of dust on the shelf. He frowned at the sight for a second, before swatting the thought away like an annoying bug.
Sitting down on the floor he opened the book, carefully, like it was the most valuable thing he ever held in his hands.
The very first thing he saw was a message to his father, written on the inside of the cover.
For my brightest student.
The ink had faded over the years, just like the memories of his father. Sometimes he caught himself trying to remember what he looked like, trying to remember the sound of his voice … and not being able to do it. He needed to look at the portrait hanging in his room to refresh his memory, and often he couldn't decide whether it made him angry or sad. Or both. In any case, it meant he was losing him, for good. When there weren't even memories left … his dad would be gone forever.
Today was easier, the memories clearer, and he was thankful for that – as much as remembering hurt sometimes, he was afraid of forgetting.

He started flicking through the pages, picking out random words and sentences, but his mind refused to actually focus. Reading was out of the question, and with a sigh, he closed the book. He wasn't sure what he'd expected go gain from this. A message from his dad? A sign that he wasn't completely gone? Closure?
Shaking his head, he stood up – and there it was. A sound that shouldn't have been there. The sound of paper hitting the floor.
His heart sped up as his eyes traveled down, until they stared right at the loose piece of paper that had landed between his feet. It couldn't be...

His hand shook when he reached down to pick it up, while his eyes flickered back to the book in his other hand. How? Why? What if it was nothing? Just some notes about the book, a misplaced shopping list. What if it was something?
There was only one way to find out, he knew that. And still, he couldn't find the courage to unfold the paper. He was trying to get rid of the hopes and expectations that automatically filled a place inside him that he thought was empty.

The minutes passed in silence – a silence like none he'd ever experienced. Pregnant with expectations, brimming with hope, boiling over with longing and electrified with the thrill of the unknown. Maybe this wasn't what he had been expecting – what had he expected? - but it was something. Something that promised to lead to more.

He dared a smile and took a deep breath. And unfolded the paper.

N 35°41'54.081 E 139°48'56.152

That was all it said. The hope flickered like the dying flame of a candle, the expectations crashed down from where they sat high up between the clouds. But the longing intensified a tenfold and the thrill became the heartbeat, the thrumming under his skin, the blood coursing through his veins.

It didn't matter where these coordinates would lead, it didn't matter if they were meant for him or someone else – he'd been waiting for an answer for so many years, and there it was, right in front of him. Maybe miracles do happen.
"Thank you" he said out loud, his smile growing.

He also thanked whoever was listening for his phone, because it could make sense of the numbers without much trouble.
The unrelenting August sun burned down on him as he raced along the streets. Somehow he managed to avoid bumping into people or getting run over by a car, even though his eyes stayed glued to the map on his phone, all the while questions where flooding his mind.

What would he find there? Why this place? Was something important there? Was the message left for him? How long had it been there, just a forgotten piece of paper in a book?

The desire to find answers to these questions fueled him and he reached the park in record time, out of breath and dripping sweat. As his eyes roamed over the park, trying to figure out what he was supposed to see, a different picture assembled in his mind, overlapping with the real world.

He was five and it was the day after his birthday. His dad took him to the park. They got ice cream and just walked, enjoying a nice summer day. But he was waiting, because his dad always did something cool. And he wasn't disappointed. First, he made a dove appear. Just that one. It followed them for a while, before perching on his dad's shoulder. At some point, it flew over and landed on his. And then, as if on cue, his dad made another dove appear, and then another one, and another one. More and more, until there was a whole flock, their white wings brushing against his face and arms. People stared. They stopped walking and stared at the spectacle that disrupted their summer day routine. He stood amid the fluttering white, his ice cream was melting and dripping on his clothes, but he was happy and his dad was the coolest dad ever.

An echo of that carefree feeling tugged at his heart, but it was overshadowed by the effort it took to actually remember his dad's face. It got mixed up with the painted face he saw every day, one that wasn't real and shouldn't be in a memory. The smile was all wrong. It didn't belong there – but how else could his mind fill the gap?

He shook off the confusing mix of emotions and concentrated on his reason for being here. There had to be a specific spot, surely his dad couldn't mean the whole park. Strolling along the path, he willed himself to remember. It all looked the same, trees and grass and happy people.

The air was filled with laughter and talk, people lounging on the grass, children running around in a game of tag. Dogs barked and a soccer ball flew past him, a teenager running after it.

Only a few clouds drifted by lazily, otherwise leaving a perfect, blue sky. It was idyllic.

But he didn't see any of it, because his vision had zeroed in on a tree. A very specific tree. It should be impossible for him to know that it was this tree, it had been such a long time ago and it didn't have any discerning features. He just knew.
A feather had landed on the ground right under that tree and he'd picked it up, tucking it away in his pocket.

His feet moved on their own, first slowly, then faster and faster until he was running. Whatever his dad left behind, it was there. It had to be.

He fell to his knees on the exact spot, oblivious to the funny looks people were sending his way. Where? Where?
Soft soil gave way under his fingers as he dug with his bare hands, clinging to his skin and getting stuck under his fingernails. Then he felt something hard and cold, and his heart skipped a beat. He found it!
It almost felt like the whole word stopped spinning when he pulled the thing out of the earth.
The small, cylindrical metal container fit neatly in the palm of his hand, the metallic blue color glinting in the sunlight.
He inspected it from all sides, but there was nothing special about it. Except that it had just become his whole world.
Sitting back, he stared at it. This was it. His dad left this behind. All he needed to do was open it.
Screw open the lid and see what's inside. Easy.
At least, it should be.

"Are you okay, boy?" a gruff voice asked. He turned toward it, seeing an old man leaning heavily on a cane. The hands gripping the knob were all wrinkles and blue veins.
"I-" He didn't know what to say. Was he okay? There he was, in his hands the message he'd waiting for. He should have been happy.
"I don't know."
"Ah-" the man sighed and sat down on the nearest bench, right next to the tree. "Tell me about yourself."
"What?" He looked up to meet blue eyes, telling stories of love and loss, of good times and bad times, and a lifetime of experiences. It was startling.
"Tell me something about yourself." the man repeated.
"Why?" Kaito asked in return, not being the type to bare his soul to strangers. He didn't even bare it to his closes friend, after all.
"Humor an old person who's got not much left to look forward to in this world."
He nearly bit his lip, but remembered his poker face before he could slip up. Well, maybe he could spare a minute or two, grant the man his wish.
"What do you want to know?" he asked, the blue container in his hand almost forgotten, its importance fluttering around the edges of his mind.

"Anything you want to tell me."

He thought about the question, in the way he thought about every single word before it left his mouth, weighing options, examining all angles, considering the consequences.
A chuckle interrupted the process.
"You always think this much, boy? Just tell me the first thing that you think of. What do you like?"
"Magic." The word shot out of his mouth without a single thought and with unintentional intensity.

Leaning forward, the old man nodded, his blue eyes twinkling with satisfaction and interest.

"Magic, eh? Now that's something you don't hear often from someone your age. From children, all the time, and sometimes from those who never leave their inner child behind. But with you teenagers, it's all video games and horror movies now. My granddaughter loves these. Always tells me about these 'sick new games', and I don't even know what to do with that information. And then she tries to explain to me how Twitter works."
The man shook his head, but his smile was fond. "I'll never get the hang of these social networking things. So, why do you like magic?"

"My dad was a magician." he said, again without much thought. It seemed like it brain had decided to disconnect itself from the conversation, letting his mouth work alone.

"I see. Is that the only reason?"

Frowning, he shook his head.

"Well, no. I … uh … I like to make people wonder. Or laugh. And you can do both with magic. You can make them laugh or scratch their heads in confusion. At least, that's what it's like with adults. Children don't even care. They, well, most of them, don't try to figure out how a trick works, they just enjoy the magic. Some even think it's real magic. Isn't that amazing? That you can make people believe in something that's-" He stopped, realizing that he'd started rambling, feeling his cheeks warm up.

The man leaned back, laughter dancing in his eyes.

"No need to be ashamed. You should be proud to be so passionate about something."

Before Kaito had a chance to answer, the man continued. "So, your old man was a magician, eh? Tell me more about him."

"He was great, fun. He taught me magic and took me flying with his hang glider. We used to come to this park for ice cream, and sometimes he would do impromptu magic shows for the kids."

"Sounds like he was perfect."

"He was."

"Nobody is perfect, kid. Not even your old man."

"Don't talk about him like that!" he burst out, before mentally reprimanding himself for losing his poker face. But really, who was this guy? And what it did matter to him if he thought his dad was great? What was wrong with that?

"Like what? Like it's the truth?"

"You have no idea who my father was, you have no right to say things like that about him."

"Slow down, there. I'm not saying your old man wasn't a great guy, but he wasn't perfect either, is all I'm saying. And it seems like I hit a nerve there."

"Well, I'm not going to sit here and listen to some random guy talking shit-"

"Mind your language, boy. And yes, I may be just some random guy-" the blue eyes no longer held the playful twinkle, now they were calculating and hard, "but you're just angry because you know that I'm telling you the truth." He sighed, and some of the hardness left his eyes. "Listen, kiddo. You obviously adore your old man, and that's fine. But don't go putting him on a pedestal so high it vanishes behind the clouds. Don't hold him up to expectations so high he could never fulfill them if he were alive. You can do these things because he's dead, but if your dad was here right now, you might think very differently about him."

Dusting off his pants, Kaito stood up, the tube clenched in his hand.
"I don't know who you are, but I won't listen to this. I've got places to be."
Turning around, he left the man behind, the anger still lingering in his system. How dare that guy drag his father through the dirt like that? Nobody gets to do that.

He put some distance between himself and the man, before stopping to open the container. The cap was screwed on tightly and required a surprising amount of strength to loosen.
But it came off eventually, and he turned the container on its head. A small key and a rolled up piece of paper fell into his palm.
Sparing the key but a glance, he unrolled the paper, eager to read another message from his father. After all these years, the silence was broken.

He stared at the paper, feeling a little gobsmacked – because he recognized the code instantly. The katakana were arranged in a circle and didn't make any sense at all, unless you knew what to do with them.

In his head, he romanized the letters, then rotated the vowels one step clockwise, and the gibberish turned into a message. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, telling him that this wasn't right, that it wasn't a coincidence, but he ignored it.

My face is high above, but I only walk in circles.

That's what it said and at first, he had no idea what it meant. Maybe it was a lucky coincidence that he used the code on the clock tower heist, because otherwise it might have taken him a lot longer to connect the dots. A clock had a face, and the clock on the tower was high above... and he could figure out the second part on his way there.

His head was a mess, jumping back and forth between the riddle, half-rotten memories and the things that were going on in his life at the present.
Did the walking in circles part pertain to the clock as well? The hands did move in a circle. Why couldn't he remember how his dad sounded when he laughed? How could he forget something that important? Did his dad ever laugh or was his poker face always in place, even when it shouldn't be?
Wasn't he doing the same thing? Always hiding behind a mask. Whether it was smiling or unreadable, it was a mask nonetheless. How was he going to make Aoko believe that he was okay, when he really wasn't? Sometimes it felt like she knew exactly that he was lying to her, but went along with it anyway. She wasn't stupid and she knew him better than anyone else, it was harder to fool her.
Was the clock tower actually the right answer or did he jump to conclusions too fast? Well, he was already halfway there, so he might as well check it out, but he should consider other possibilities too.

He raked a hand through his hair, making it even more of a mess, and looked up at the building towering over him. It seemed almost too coincidental, that his dad would leave him a message, sending him here, in the same code he used to keep the clock tower in place. But there was no way his dad could have known that would happen, and he probably saw the code once before, when he was younger, and unknowingly pulled it from his memory when he left his message behind.

More importantly though, where was the next clue? The riddle spoke specifically of the clock itself, but if there had been anything out of place there, he would noticed on his heist. And the clue had to have been there for years, without anyone noticing – simply sticking it to the clock's face wouldn't work.
Maybe it was somewhere inside the tower, or buried outside, like the metal container.
Was there another clue in the riddle?

He pulled the paper out of his pocket and looked it over again, slowly and deliberately. If there was another message, he wouldn't miss it. Rotating the vowels in the other direction didn't bring up anything, and neither did changing the consonants, or substituting different kanji. Nothing that made sense, anyway.

Sighing deeply, he pocketed the paper again, and started walking towards the clock tower. He would search every nook and corner, if he had to, but the logical approach had the potential to be less time-consuming.

Was there something he was supposed to remember? After all, at the park, his memory did help him find the right tree, so maybe the clue was actually hidden in his head, rather than on the paper.

The ones that happened after his dad died were sorted out quickly, he wouldn't find anything in those. Which left him with two memories.

He sat down on the stairs in front of the tower, replaying the second memory. He'd met Aoko that day. He knew that he came to the clock tower with his dad, but he couldn't remember why. What were they doing here? What if it had something to do with this … treasure hunt?

Groaning in frustration, he pulled out the paper and key, staring at them intently, as if he could make them give up their secrets by sheer power of will. Unsurprisingly, it didn't yield any results. It only made his eyes water, because he stopped blinking.
Then he saw something in the corner of his eye and turned his head. A smile tugged at his lips when he reached out to trail the words scratched into the stone steps.
Aoko. Kaito. Followed by a very crude and childish sketch of a rose. And under the rose... He frowned. That hadn't been there when they etched their names into the step.
In order to look down, you have to look up first.
His smile grew wider and his mind instantly kicked into overdrive, analyzing the words.

Leaning his head back, he followed the words and looked up. While there was a part of the clock tower in his vision, everything else was just clear, blue sky. He wasn't sure how that was supposed to help him.

Maybe it wasn't looking up, but being up somewhere... like a clock tower.

He practically flew up the stairs, reaching the highest level in no time. Technically, he wasn't even supposed to be up here – no one was -, but neither the locked door nor the sign had much success in holding him back.

Then he was faced with a choice – the engine room to his left, or the trap door above him. Following his father's words, he went up.

A soft summer breeze caressed his face when he emerged from the trap door, taking in the view below and around him. The sun was just beginning to set, painting the sky in fiery oranges, crimson reds and faint roses. Taking a deep breath, he stepped closer to the edge, leaning against one of the pillars that enclosed the bell.

There was something magical about the moment, a different kind of magic than the one he performed. It was peace instead of tricks, beauty instead of illusions – and all the more awe-inspiring.

He wished he could freeze time, hold on to that moment forever, squeeze it into the small container in his pocket and carry it with him, taking it out whenever he needed to breathe.

His eyes traveled down, taking in the streets bustling with life.

In order to look down, you need to look up first.

He was up and looking down, but what was he supposed to see?

He followed the cars with his eyes until they disappeared from his sight, tracked random people as they went on with their lives. Maybe he misunderstood.

But what else could the message mean?

With a deep sigh, he sat down and let his legs dangle over the edge. Maybe his dad never got to finish this treasure hunt – or whatever it was. This might be the end, the last station.

His heart ached at the thought. This had been so unexpected, a last message he thought he'd never get, and he wasn't ready for it to end. He could come back tomorrow, or the day after, and look again. And if he was busy, he could always do it another day.

It didn't have to end today.

"Hey, dad..." he trailed off. Usually, he talked with him in front of the portrait. He never stopped to wonder why. Now it seemed like that portrait was a sort of middleman, something to uphold the connection when his failing memory couldn't. Ever day, parts and pieces of his dad slipped away, like sand trickling through the cracks in a broken hour glass. Even now, he couldn't picture his face, couldn't imagine his voice. It was all gone.

The gaping hole inside him ached and throbbed. Like acid, it had eaten away at his heart, then his memories, slowly devouring the things he tried to hold on to the most. And he couldn't stop it.

"Dad-" he started again, but his words became sand in the cracked hour glass.

It was painful – letting go. He wasn't sure he was ready, or that he ever wanted to be.

"I'm getting too old for this." He recognized the voice and turned around, his poker face laying itself over his real face like a second skin.
"Who are you?" His hand closed around a smoke bomb in his pocket – it never hurt to have some on him, just in case – as he watched the old man from the park close the trap door.
The man let out a laugh, too high and feminine, and pulled a mask from his face.
Kaito sighed, not sure whether to feel annoyed or relieved. At least he wasn't in danger. He let go of the smoke bomb, but kept his hand in his pocket, gripping the metal container instead.
Still, he decided annoyance was a perfectly reasonable reaction to his mother's antics.

"Mom, what the hell are you doing?"

Seeing his mother's face attached to an old man's body was definitely weird.

"Oh, just keeping my acting skills fresh. How was I? Did you suspect anything?"
He had a strong urge to facepalm, but settled for a deadpan stare instead.
"What? Don't look at me like that. Practice is important."
"Yeah, yeah. Just, practice your acting on someone else, please? This is just … weird."
"So harsh!" She gripped her chest with both hands and rolled her eyes back in a theatrical manner.

"Mom, stop it. Why are you even here? I thought you left?"
"I did."
"But?"

She dropped her act, and he realized just how much their entire family hid behind masks.

"I'm sorry, Kaito. I've been running off every year, leaving you alone, because I couldn't deal with...it was just too hard."

He nodded. He'd thought as much. But why did she come back this time?

"What changed?"

She looked past him at the rainbow colored sky, and in her smile he could see all the things she normally hid from him. The grief and sadness, the longing. Then she looked right at him. He swallowed hard at the intense emotions in her eyes.

"I don't know. I just realized that it's not working, I guess. The running away, I mean. And it wasn't fair to leave you alone with everything you're dealing with."
He shifted his feet uncomfortably, not used to hearing his mother's private thoughts.
"You know I can handle it. You said it yourself after the Kaito Corbeau thing."
She shook her head. "That's not what I'm talking about."

The silence stood between them like an invisible wall, thick and sturdy. And on top of it sat the ghost that haunted them both.
"I … I have to go, mom. There's something I need to do."
He didn't wait for her to answer, but the fact that she was standing right next to the trap door made his exit rather awkward.
She didn't hold him back though, and he was glad for that.
He wasn't even sure why he was running away, but that had just been wrong on so many levels.

First of all, his mom having a change of heart and not leaving on the anniversary. That hadn't happened in … ever. And then she disguised and followed him around. Why? Acting practice, yeah right. Did she know about the treasure hunt, had she been in on it? Was she the one that made it? Was it not his dad's idea at all? But probably worst of all, her opening up like that. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

It just didn't happen. They didn't have heart to heart talks.

He fished the items in his pocket out and stared at them in contemplation, blindly dodging the other people on the street. If there was a clue on, or near, the clock tower, he wouldn't find out today.

And he was surprisingly okay with that.

Deep in thought, he didn't realize where he was going until his feet stopped all of a sudden, and he looked up, finding himself in front of the magic bar that his dad had performed at regularly. His dad performed all over Japan, on big stages for the most part, but he said he liked the smaller scale bars and restaurants.
This was also where he'd done his last show.
They rebuild the bar after it burned down to the ground, and it looked almost the same.
He watched as men and women in suits and dresses entered the bar, ready to relax after a day of work, and he ached to go in and see his dad perform, just like when he was younger.
Funnily enough, even though he frequented this bar at the age of six, they wouldn't let him in now.

He turned away, weariness creeping into his body. Even if he got in, there was no point. Kuroba Toichi wouldn't be performing.

After racing around the city, the way back home felt like it stretched endlessly. He was done with this day, done with chasing after a phantom, done with trying to hold on to memories that obviously didn't want to stay in his head.

He stopped in the middle of a bridge, metal container, key and paper in his hands. All he needed to do was throw them into the river and he could forget about them. Nothing good had come from this. The loss of his memories was more prominent than ever in his mind, his mother had opened up Pandora's box with her willingness to share her feelings, and he didn't want to deal with any of it.

His muscles started to protest after a few minutes, and with a sigh he drew his shaking arms back.
He opened his right hand, looking at the small bronze key. This was the last thing he had left of his dad. Could he really throw that away, just like that?
No.
Even if he never found the next clue, even if he never found the lock to this key, he would keep it.
It was something tangible and solid, something he could hold on to. It wouldn't fade away like his memories. And that made it all the more important.

After their short conversation earlier, he expected to find his mom at home, but the house greeted him like it always did: dark and silent.

While he took of his shoes, he wondered if he should feel something. Sadness, maybe, because she left him alone, again. But if anything, he felt resigned. It was nothing new, and really, he was used to it.

He went into the kitchen and turned on the lights, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw the wooden box sitting on the table. There was a note on top of it, and he picked it up, deciding to read it before opening the box.

Your father left this for you, but he never got to finish his little treasure hunt. When I saw you storming out like that, I remembered the first clue and checked to see if you'd found it. It wasn't in the book anymore, so I assumed I was right. I followed you to see what you would do.
You seemed pretty adamant to find all the clues, but I knew that not all where in place. I wanted to go ahead and plant one at the clock tower, but you beat me to it. And it seems like I scared you off with my actions. I didn't mean to, but you have to cut me some slack. I was improvising.
This box was supposed to be at this magic bar your father liked so much. The one where he had his first real show. He planned on leaving it with the owner until you came to find it. I don't know what's inside, but I hope that it's going to make you happy.
I know you can take care of yourself, darling. But you don't have to. I've been doing a lot of thinking, and maybe we should spend more time together. I know what you're doing. You're just like your father, always keeping your poker face – and I guess I'm not much better. I'm just worried that you're forgetting who you are.
Just think about it, okay?
I'm going back to the States, but you can call me anytime if you want to talk.

Mom

He wasn't sure what to make of some of the things she wrote. Spending more time together? And the first thing she did after writing that was going back to Vegas? And then there was that part about his poker face … when he read the first part of that sentence, he'd actually felt proud. Being like his father was definitely a good thing in his opinion, but after reading the rest … he wasn't so sure anymore. Sure, he always kept his poker face – or at least tried to -, but he'd never really considered that a bad thing.

Setting the note aside, he decided to deal with his mother later and turned his attention to the box. It was square, about 20 centimeters wide and 10 centimeters in height, made from rosewood with it's distinct reddish brown color.

He trailed over the playing cards and feathers that had been intricately carved into the wood.

The engraving on the lid was a little different. Four aces were fanned out with a joker in the middle and below them a rose. It reminded him of the mark he and Aoko left on the clock tower's steps. Maybe that's where his dad got the idea.

He hesitated before inserting the key. What if it didn't fit? What if he didn't like whatever was in the box? What if there was nothing inside?
The key fit, but he still didn't turn it.
Once he did, once he opened the box, it was over. No more mysteries, no more wondering, no more messages. They would be back to the suffocating silence.

And he decided he wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

There you go. I figured, the thing being found didn't neccessarily have to be the one that was lost and took some liberty with that.
I feel like explaining this means I haven't done a very good job as a writer, but at the same time ... I wonder if I actually achieved what I was going for. The lost things would have been his memories and the connection to his father, and in turn he found the treasure hunt things and his mother (like, I could say a lot about their relationship, but then I would ramble on for ever and ever, so I'm just sticking to 'his mother') - so my question to you as a reader is: did you actually get that or did I mess this up?
Granted, I wrote more than half of this in less than a day, so I didn't expect it to be a masterpiece, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless, and reviews would be very much appreciated!