One year to the day after Light died in the Yellow Box warehouse, the task force gathered to drink and remember. None of them mentioned it – the great It that had been six long years of their lives. They stared at their drinks rather than each other, trying to find peace in silence. It was a rainy, lukewarm January day, and none of them would ever admit to mourning.

The crime rate was up again. The news of imitation Kiras or Kira cult suicides was dying down. The world at large breathed a sigh of relief and forgot. Like children, humanity forgot the nightmare as soon as it was gone.

"Matsuda," Mogi asked suddenly. "Feeling better?"

"What? Yeah…yeah, I'm better." Matsuda blinked confusedly at his sake and then out the window. "I'm all right."

"How about your daughter, Aizawa? Your wife…how're they?"

"She's glad I'm home more often," he said, not quite curtly, and the conversation died, because with that they were all thinking…

Matsuda stood up, wobbling a little. "I should…go. Wash my hands or something." He wandered out as Ide began to hiss remonstrances, and closed the bathroom door behind him. Stared into the mirror: his eyes were bleary and red, and splashing water on his face didn't help.

Matsuda, you idiot! Who do you think you're shooting at?

His hands shook and he gripped the sink. There were some things it was hard to forget. His lips felt numb.

Light would be twenty-four if he were alive today.

"I should quit the force," he said to the mirror. "Something's wrong with me." The mirror winked back at him, unsympathetic.