Disclaimer: Ran, Sera, and Shinichi belong to Gosho Aoyama's "Detective Conan".
A/N: I blame this tiny one-shot on SN (Ritz/aritzen) and June/teainapot.
Waiting
by FS
Waiting for him wasn't easy, but she doesn't mind waiting since she is convinced that the longer you wait for someone, the happier you will be when you're finally reunited with them.
She is already ninety-nine years and eleven months old when he returns to her at last, showering her with explanations and apologies for his sporadic visits, which were always tarnished by elaborate lies and never last long. She doesn't stoop but chooses to lean back in her armchair so that she can fix her eyes on his face and read the words on his lips. It's an effective strategy against her wandering mind and her hearing impairment.
That said—considering her age, she still holds herself remarkably well. It must be the habitual karate workouts and the principled life she has been leading—the regular exercise, plenty of vitamins, and sufficient sleep. No escapades whatsoever—not even sweets or junk food after she turned forty. She has been consistently loyal and cheerful and has guarded her pure heart from the vices of the world although she has stopped flushing whenever someone compliments her on her impeccable manners and her virtuous life. To all the people she met but to one person, she has been an angel.
She is no longer a crybaby since her tears have dried up—months after she realized that some loves aren't meant to be. Watching him squirm under her attentive gaze with a mixture of compassion and slight amusement (how endearing he looks with his rueful smile on his seven-year-old face!), she serenely tells him that it's all right since she has known it all along and, to her, waiting for him to tell her the truth wasn't a sacrifice at all.
x.
Waiting for her hundredth birthday is a torture she almost doesn't survive—her birthdays are always the only exceptions to the rule. Ayumi-chan observes with a knowing smile that she is wearing her best dress—a flattering cloud of red silk which makes her look like Sophia Loren at the tender age of seventy. At hundred, she is more beautiful than ever. One can only hope that her ravishing guest of honour, whose thoughts she can never guess (how could one deduce the heart of the person one loves?), will find her irresistible as well.
Following Shinichi's example, she will admit the truth at last—asking for forgiveness and expressing her regret about having chosen a mask she can no longer wear. For the whole afternoon, she has been flushing like an infatuated teenager looking forward to Valentine's Day, humming and trying out Jeet Kune Do moves in front of the mirror, conjuring up memories of shy, reluctant kisses and self-conscious embraces, of messy dark curls and mischievous boyish smirks revealing vampire-like fangs and the singular charm of those laughing panda eyes—all the things which have survived the ravages of time.
The news which breaks her heart arrives when she has just blown out her candles and proceeded to cut the cake, and her hands—which were once white and soft and supple but now resemble dried autumn leaves—shake uncontrollably as her gaze falls on the name of sender. Excusing herself with a polite smile, she flees into the refuge of her bedroom to weep, drenching the ominous letter in eighty-three years' worth of tears before she dares to open it.
x.