There is a pair of sunglasses in a room, in an apartment on the edge of town.
They are large glasses, black, mirrored, and slightly stretched with time; someone with a head far larger than any normal man had once worn them. A crack goes through one lens, a perfectly symmetrical line marring the uniform darkness of the glass.
The glasses sit on a small table, which is covered in an old, ratty blue cloth that once was, perhaps, a coat. The coat has been cleaned, but not mended, and holes, gashes, and suspiciously red stains tell more than many would want to know.
There is no picture behind the table, nothing to suggest that the glasses are all that remains of a small, broken family. Nothing about the glasses suggests that hours were spent digging through the rubble of a martial arts stadium. Nothing suggests the constant bleeding of fingers that reassembled themselves, time after time, as stones were thrown and wood splintered. Nothing about the sunglasses suggests that when they were found, all in one piece, they were held to a chest with a heart that beat slowly, like a demon's, while an older brother cried for his sibling.
The glasses are not moved. They are not touched, nor acknowledged. They simply are, and the apartment's inhabitant does not make a habit of showing them to others. Only one other person can confess to knowing what the glasses are, and what they mean. But Kazuma Kuwabara isn't so cruel as to ask Aniki why. He knows he will not get an answer.
A/N: Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, those glasses NEVER would have survived the Urameshi-Toguro fight, but humor me, will you?