Kōji

than she was, by three or four years, perhaps; and she had hair of a colour Ama had never seen before – a tawny fairness like a lion’s.

‘Okay,’ he says, and he leans the long-handled dustpan and brush he is holding against the wall. He is just a bit taller than I am, slim, clean-shaven. He has very pale skin and eyes that are big and wet-looking. Their irises are like two dirty ponds. They take in my face for just a moment too long for it to feel normal. ‘So, what are you?’ he says