Silent Poison
The smartphone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
Koichi Miura lay slumped on the living room sofa, the phone facedown beside him.
The afternoon sunlight filtering through the curtains was painfully bright.
Though the windows were closed, the curtains trembled ever so slightly.
The television murmured with the voice of a commentator.
“…The deceased, Michiko Shinohara, was reportedly having tea with her former colleague Koichi Miura on the day of her death…”
“His fingerprints were found on the bottle. Whether suicide or homicide, his involvement cannot be ruled out…”
On-screen, his own face appeared.
He looked pale. His voice was hoarse.
But that man on the screen—“Koichi Miura the criminal”—
seemed somehow different from the person he knew himself to be.
—
Ding-dong—the doorbell rang.
Miura couldn’t bring himself to stand.
A newspaper thudded into the mailbox.
Footsteps faded from the front door.
An envelope had been dropped on the ground.
Written in bold marker on the brown paper:
“Apologize in Hell.”
With every heartbeat, sweat burst from his skin.
—
An email from the company arrived.
“Regarding the incident, you are instructed to suspend all external activity indefinitely.
Your advisory contract is hereby terminated effective today.”
Subject: “Disciplinary Measures.”
No words of apology were included.
TV, social media, tabloids—
The web of guilt she had spun with her death now surrounded him completely.
The law wouldn’t punish him.
But society demanded blood.
And finally, he realized—
This was a revolution.
A quiet rebellion, started by one silenced soul in the name of justice.
—
One teacup remained on the table, still holding the cold, bitter scent of the brew.
He shuddered at the smell.
“You didn’t die by your own words…
You died by my sins, didn’t you?”
—
Outside, something else dropped into the mailbox.
