"You look better," she said.
"I feel the same."
"That's fine. The outside is what matters. The inside will catch up eventually."
Tara led him to a vintage shop.
The interior was dim and dusty, filled with racks of old clothes and shelves of knickknacks.
The smell was familiar, mothballs and old paper and the particular musk of things that had been loved and discarded and loved again.
"I love this place," Tara said, running her fingers over a rack of dresses. "Everything here has a story. You can feel it, you know? The history."
"They're clothes, I can't really feel their history by just being by them."
"That's because you're not trying." She pulled a dress from the rack, a pale blue thing with lace at the collar, and held it against herself. "What do you think?"
"I think you'd look good in anything."
"You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"Where you say something nice but your face doesn't change. It's creepy."
"I've always been like this, I can't help it if I look creepy."
She put the dress back and moved to another rack, this one filled with jackets. "What about this?"
"It's yellow."
"It's mustardish."
"It's yellow."
They left the vintage shop with a bag of things Tara had bought for herself, a scarf, a hat, a pair of earrings shaped like tiny birds. The afternoon light was softer now.
The shopping district gave way to a quieter neighborhood, the buildings older, the streets narrower. A cat watched them from a windowsill, its yellow eyes tracking their movement with lazy disinterest.
A small shrine sat at the end of the street, its red gate weathered by years of rain and sun. Tara stopped at its entrance, tilting her head.
"Want to go in?"
"Why?"
"Why not?" She was already walking, her footsteps silent on the stone path. "It's peaceful. And you look like you could use some peace."
The shrine was small, clearly forgotten, its grounds overgrown with weeds. The offering box was empty, the rope hanging limp and unused.
Tara bowed at the gate, the way she'd probably been taught as a child, then walked toward the main hall. Hoshimi followed, his hands in his pockets.
They stood before the altar, the wooden doors closed, the shadows of the eaves falling across their faces.
"I don't really believe in the Primordials," Tara said.
"I can't help but believe in them, I've seen one myself. If you don't believe in them then why did we come here?" He looked up at the shrine, at the faded paint and the weathered wood.
"I want someone to swoop in and make my life better, I want to try to believe in them."
Tara was quiet for a moment. "I want to ignore everything and devote my life to them, I want to distract myself in worship."
Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a five-yen coin, holding it up between her fingers.
"They say you're supposed to toss it in the box. Make a wish." She looked at the coin, then at him. "What would you wish for?"
"I doubt the Primordials could grant my wish."
"Then wish for something small. Something that could happen." She pressed the coin into his palm, her fingers warm against his skin. "Come on."
Hoshimi stared at the coin. The metal was cool, unremarkable, the same as any other five-yen coin in the country. He looked at the offering box, the wooden slats dark with age, the shadows pooling inside.
He tossed the coin.
It arced through the air, caught the light, and disappeared into the darkness of the box with a soft clink.
Tara smiled. "What did you wish for?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't come true."
"That's not how wishes work."
"It's not like there are rules to wishes."
They stood in silence for a moment, the wind rustling through the overgrown weeds, the distant sound of traffic a low hum in the background.
"Do you want to know what I would have wished for?" Tara asked.
"What?"
"My kid to be happy."
"Isn't that nice?"
Hoshimi looked at her. Her golden eyes were earnest, soft with something that might have been kindness or might have been hope.
He didn't smile.
They walked.
The streets grew quieter, the buildings older. A canal cut through the neighborhood, its water dark and slow, reflecting the gray sky in fractured fragments. Cherry trees lined its banks.
"They'll bloom soon," Tara said, looking up at the bare branches.
"When?"
"I dunno, probably in a week or more." She glanced at him. "You should come see them. When they do."
"I don't know if I'll still be here."
"Where else would you go?"
He didn't have an answer for that.
They stopped at a small bridge crossing the canal.
The water below was dark, the surface disturbed by the occasional ripple of a fish or the wind. A heron stood on the opposite bank, motionless, its gray feathers blending into the shadows.
Tara leaned against the railing, her chin resting on her folded arms. "You never told me what you do. For work, I mean."
"I'm a student."
"A student? At what school?"
"A boarding school. In the city." He paused. "I'm not going back."
"Why not?"
"Because everyone there wants me dead."
Tara's expression didn't change. "That's dramatic."
"It's true."
"Huh." She considered this for a moment. "And here I thought you were just a sad boy with mommy issues."
"Maybe I am."
She turned to face him, her back against the railing, her arms crossed. "So what's the plan? You're just going to drift forever?"
He looked at her. "Why do you care?"
The question came out sharper than he'd intended. He watched her face for a reaction, for the flinch or the defensive bristle that usually followed when he asked people why they bothered with him.
But Tara just tilted her head, her golden eyes thoughtful.
"I don't know," she said.
"I don't want anything from you."
"I know. That's why I'm still here."
The words hung in the air between them. The heron took flight, its wings beating slow and deliberate, disappearing over the rooftops.
Hoshimi looked down at the water. His reflection stared back at him, pale and hollow-cheeked, his violet eyes ringed with shadows.
"When I was younger," he said slowly, "I went on a date with someone. She took me to the zoo. Showed me all the animals."
"What happened to her?"
"She died." He paused. "It was my fault."
Tara was quiet for a moment. Then she pushed off from the railing and started walking again, her footsteps slow and deliberate.
"Come on," she said. "I want to show you something."
They walked through the neighborhood, past houses with small gardens and bicycles parked in front of doors. Children played in the street, their voices bright and carefree. An old woman watered her plants, the hose dribbling water across the cracked pavement.
Tara stopped in front of a small building. It was a community center, the kind that hosted events for children and the elderly.
"I volunteer here sometimes," she said. "On weekends. When I have time."
"That's nice of you. What do you do?"
"I read to the kids and help with their homework. Sometimes I just sit with them, listen to their problems." She smiled. "They're easier to talk to than adults."
"Why are you showing me this?"
She looked at him. "Those kids, they don't care about what happened in my past. They don't care that I used to be a prostitute. They just know that someone showed up, they're orphans, all they want to be is to be held." She paused.
They walked back through the city as the afternoon light began to fade. The shadows grew longer, the colors richer, the world softening at the edges. Tara bought them both crepes from a street vendor, the batter sizzling on the hot griddle, the smell of sugar and butter filling the air.
"Strawberry and cream," she said, handing him one. "Don't argue."
He didn't argue. The crepe was warm in his hands, the strawberries sweet, the cream too rich. He ate it in small bites, trying not to think about the last time he'd eaten something like this.
They sat on a bench in a small plaza, the fountain at its center dry and empty. The sun was low in the sky, painting the buildings in shades of gold and orange.
"Thank you," Hoshimi said.