The wind blew, giving marginal relief from the sweltering heat. The bottom of your dark skirt ruffled in the breeze and slipped through your clothes to cool you. There should have been relief – sweet, sweet relief – but today it could not be found, for you would not dare to look for it.
Your eyes, sunken into your cheeks and red from the now-ceased tears, glared narrowly at the casket. Around you there were echoes of silence and, at the same time, peace from the dance of nature around you.
But no solace was to be found, for you could not even find yourself. After receiving the news of your brother's death, all serenity and contentment abandoned you. Utterly. You were lost, alone, and cold despite the heat.
Your brother was an eccentric man into dark things just as eccentric, but he was your brother and you'd loved him as such nonetheless. Now he was gone. Murdered. Torn apart by the very preternatural beings he obsessed over. (You were sure of it, even if no one else believed you.)
Not too far away stood your parents. Your mother, a delicate woman in her prime, dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, silent tears marring her otherwise beautiful face. Your father, a more stout and held-together man, allowed his wife to cling to him, countenance devoid of everything but a hint of life.
Just like you.
The casket closed, and after a few words of prayer to the gods above, it disappeared beneath the ground. Your last memory of your dear brother was his clay-like face, lying in a true death bed, and swallowed by the earth.
The ceremony following was oddly joyous as those who had known your brother, regardless of how close they might have been, attempted to remember him happily. But beneath that joyous atmosphere there was one of tension and fear. Everyone knew of his eccentric “habit”, but no one spoke of it. Most of the guests, you realized, were old family friends, people he’d grown up with, and relatives who went on and on about the past. Before your brother was whisked away into his obsession with demons and other creatures of that ilk.
It soon drew to a close as the sunset fell beneath the clouds. The sky glowed with brilliant bursts of vermilion and ocher. As you stood at your parents’ sides, you watched as a couple of men – one elderly, one youthful – approached dutifully. Recognition glistened in your eyes at the sight of the elder male: the detective assigned to your brother’s case. Your brother’s death had been far too startling, too gruesome, to be anything but murder. The other man beside him you did not recognize, but judging from his vivid green eyes and the just as prominent red hair, he was at least a hafu. 
Your parents greeted them both kindly, and you found yourself being unwillingly forced to do the same. Physical contact was not something you wanted at the moment. Too many people had lain their sympathetic hands on your back, patting as if that would ever bring you relief or comfort in the face of your brother’s demise.
The old man cleaned off his spectacles, nerves apparent, before speaking. He apologized for showing up when he did, so soon after the death had been bitterly realized. Then, after somewhat of a preamble regarding the state of the case, he turned to the young man next to him.
“Ah, this – this is Shuichi Minamino. He is a member of the federal task force, and from now on, he will be handling your son’s case.”
Only you could fathom why your brother’s murder would catch the attention of Japan’s national police force.