"How did you end up back here? In England?" Near's eyes flicked between me and Bernard, who sat hunched over the small kitchen table nursing a mug of tea. Near's own mug lay untouched. I set the milk in front of them and retreated two steps backward.

'W-A-M-M-Y-S house,' I signed. 'Help I want.' Near's brow furrowed in confusion. 'I want to help,' I tried again.

"You wanted to help the orphanage?" Near guessed.

I nodded. His eyes hardened.

"But you're dead, L," he argued. "We didn't hear from you for years. You aren't helping anyone." I shifted my weight to my left foot. Near was no longer a child, though I suspected he had never really been one to begin with.

"What he means," Bernard spoke up in my defense, "is that he's been living here, working and donating his money to the orphanage anonymously."

"Is that true?" Near asked after a long pause.

I nodded again. 'All I have.'

He sighed. "Why didn't you contact us?"

I didn't answer.

"Fine," the albino said. "Fine, I'm sure you have your reasons. And you and Bernard?"

'Cousin.'

"I see." He looked Bernard up and down, as if truly noticing him for the first time. His eyes flicked back to me. "Christ L, what happened to you?"

I was struggling. It wasn't that I didn't know the words – I knew them. When I first moved into the bookshop, I had been more than fluent. It was the meaning that was difficult. How did you tell someone that you were raped? That you were tortured? I looked to Bernard.

"He came to me exhibiting symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder shortly after the Kira case," the raggedy bookstore owner explained. I breathed gratefully. "I was searching for an assistant at the time, and decided to take him on."

Bernard's eyes hardened, the way they did whenever he thought about the old assistant, Manny. I offered him a biscuit. He shook his head, sipping at his tea. An uncomfortable silence draped across the kitchen table. I could tell Near sensed there was some history here. His eyes scrutinized the bookstore owner.

"Christ," Bernard muttered after a moment with a squirm. "Don't you have your own ghoulish backstory to unearth?" He took a long draught of tea and made a face.

"Sorry," Near apologized, without really apologizing at all. He lifted his tea, swirling it around in its glass.

"Ryuuzaki, get me a drink. A real one," Bernard demanded.

'Eleven A-M?' I questioned.

"I don't care, just get me a drink."

'We have a guest.'

"Get him a drink too, then."

I inhaled deeply and turned to Near. 'Would you like wine?'

"Tea is fine, thanks," the younger man said. I wondered how much he saw. The alcoholic shopkeeper, defending what little dignity he had the only way he knew how. And me. What could he possibly think of me?

I took Bernard's mug, depositing it on the counter and moving to the cabinet. 'White?' I signed.

"Red," Bernard grumbled, without even looking at my hands. I saw Near smirk into his tea. I shuffled the bottles around and fished out a dusty pinot noir.

"So instead of furthering your career, you've locked yourself away in a bookshop," Near stated as I poured the dark liquid into a glass. Bernard would drink straight from the bottle if I let him. I stepped back over to the table and he snatched the glass from me greedily.

I nodded. Yes.

"Right." He set his glass down and stood, pushing his chair back from the table. "Can I speak with you for a few minutes? Privately." He nodded toward Bernard, who was well into his wine by now. The bookseller waved an idle hand in my direction. I nodded again, gesturing toward the shop proper. I followed Near back into the shop, and he cornered me in the small alcove by the sofa.

"You do realize," he said in hushed tones, "that I have to tell the others."

'You can't.'

"I have to. You've been gone far too long."

'So?'

"They have a right to know. You were the cornerstone of our lives, L."

'I am not L.'

"Of course you are L."

'No. You are L now.'

"No! Listen to me. That title? It belongs to you. I didn't just become you, all right? No one could become you."

'You are my heir.'

That shut him up, at least for a second. He sighed, and his eyes swept across the dingy old shop; across the cobwebs that hung like a widow's veil along the top shelves. "You don't belong here," he whispered.

'Where do I belong?' I knew my face betrayed my frustration, but I didn't particularly care.

"With me. At the home," he said. I frowned. The second half of that statement followed the first far too quickly.

'I have no home.'

"Of course you do," he hissed. His eyebrows twitched inward, the way they sometimes did when he wasn't getting his way. I softened. The simple tic brought a deluge of memories with it.

I shook my head. No.

Near sighed. He sat on the sofa, hooking his two forefingers together. I hovered beside him, watching him think. "Okay," he finally said. "Will you still be here if I visit again tomorrow?"

'Will you tell W-A-T-A-R-I?'

Near gave a sad little shake of his head. "No. I won't tell anyone." He fiddled with his hands, looking up at the shelf. Brave New World stared dispassionately back down at him. A nasty thought occurred to me.

'Is W-A-T-A-R-I still there?' I signed. Near wasn't watching. With some trepidation, I tapped the back of his right hand. He looked back at me. I asked the question again.

He scratched the back of his neck. "Oh, L," he mumbled before looking me in the eye. "Watari died three months ago."