"Thank you," Hoshimi said.
Tara looked at him. "For what?"
"For this. For... being here."
"I'm hungry," Tara announced. "Let's get dinner."
"We just ate."
"I have a large appetite."
She led him to a small ramen shop tucked between two larger buildings, its entrance marked by a faded red curtain and a wooden sign that had been worn smooth by years of weather. The interior was cramped and warm, filled with the smell of pork broth and garlic.
The chef behind the counter was old, his face creased with wrinkles, his hands steady as he prepared the noodles.
"Two specials," Tara said, holding up two fingers. The chef nodded, and she led Hoshimi to a small table near the back.
"You've been here before," he said.
"A few times. It's good. The owner's from Japan, said he came after a huge manaincident happened there."
"How do you know?"
"He told me. We talked." She shrugged. "I talk to a lot of people. It's how I survive."
The ramen arrived in steaming bowls, the broth dark and rich, the noodles curled beneath slices of pork and soft-boiled eggs. Hoshimi stared at his bowl, not moving.
"Eat," Tara said.
"I'm not-"
"Eat."
She picked up her chopsticks and began eating, not watching him, not waiting. Just eating, the way people did when they were hungry and didn't care who saw.
Hoshimi picked up his chopsticks. The noodles were slippery, difficult to grasp. He managed, eventually, and lifted them to his mouth.
The taste hit him immediately. Salt and fat and something else, something warm and complex that seemed to spread through his chest.
"It's good," he said, surprised.
"Told you." Tara didn't look up from her bowl. "I wouldn't have brought you here if it wasn't."
They ate in silence. The chef worked behind the counter. The other customers, a few scattered figures hunched over their bowls, paid them no attention. For a few minutes, the world was small and manageable, reduced to the space between them and the food on their plates.
Tara set down her chopsticks. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Your mother. What was she like?"
The question hung in the air between them. Hoshimi's hand stilled on his chopsticks. He stared at his bowl, at the remaining noodles swimming in broth, at the reflection of his own face in the dark surface.
"She wasn't my real mother. She adopted me and took care of me, I barely even called her mom, she was more of an elder sister to me if anything."
He was quiet for a long moment. The chef's knife thumped against the cutting board. A customer laughed at something on his phone.
"She was annoying," Hoshimi said. "She never stopped talking. Always making these stupid jokes that made me infuriated."
"She was also..." He stopped. Swallowed. "She was the only person who ever…. The only one who didn't want something from me. She just... wanted me to be okay. That was all."
His throat tightened. His eyes burned. He blinked, hard, and forced himself to keep talking.
"She used to make me read. All the time. She had all these books, hundreds of them, and she'd make me read them because she couldn't bother to do it herself, she was lazy, immature and selfish. But she really did care about me, about my sister. She had a terrible habit of smoking, sometimes the smoke would flood the entire house and we'd have to deal with it."
Tara reached across the table. Her hand covered his, small and warm and steady. She didn't say anything. Just held his hand, her thumb tracing small circles on his skin.
"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to." She squeezed his hand and released it, picking up her chopsticks again. "Now finish your ramen. It's getting cold."
He finished his ramen.
The chef was wiping down the counter, his movements slow and methodical.
"We should go," Tara said. "Let him close up."
They paid, Tara insisting on covering both bowls despite Hoshimi's protests, and stepped back out into the afternoon. The air was cooler now, a breeze coming off the harbor, carrying the smell of salt and fish.
"What now?" Hoshimi asked.
"Now? We walk some more. There's a bookstore a few blocks from here. I want to show you."
"A bookstore?"
"You like books, don't you? You said your mother made you read."
"I didn't say I liked it."
"But you did. I can tell." She was already walking, her hands in her pockets, her ginger hair catching the light. "Come on. It's not far."
The bookstore was exactly what Hoshimi had expected. Small. Cramped. Shelves overflowing with volumes that had been read and reread, their spines cracked, their pages soft with use.
The smell was the same as the apartment, old paper and something else, something that made his chest ache.
"The owner's name is Thomas," Tara said, running her fingers over a shelf of poetry. "He's been here for forty years. His wife died a while back, and he doesn't have any children, so the store is basically his whole life."
"But he seems happy. Or at least, he seems content." She pulled a book from the shelf, a thin volume with a faded cover. "Have you read this?"
He looked at the title. "No."
"It's good." She handed it to him. "Take it. My treat."
"I don't need-"
"Take it."
He took it.
They spent an hour in the bookstore, browsing the shelves. John watched them from behind the counter.
The city was different now, softer, the harsh edges of the day blurred by the approaching evening.
"Did you have fun?" Tara asked.
"I don't know."
"That's a yes."
"I didn't say it was."
She laughed and bumped her shoulder against his.
They walked back through the city.
The streets were quieter now, the crowds thinning. Office workers headed home. Families gathered for dinner. The city settled into its evening rhythm.
Tara stopped at a street vendor selling flowers. Small bouquets wrapped in paper, their petals still wet from the morning's watering.
"These are pretty," she said, touching a spray of white lilies.
"They'll die."
"That doesn't mean they aren't pretty while they last."
She bought a small bouquet, not the lilies but something smaller, a cluster of blue flowers he didn't recognize. She held them to her nose and inhaled, her eyes closing.
"They smell like my mom," she said. "She used to have tons of these in the garden, I'd practically smell these in every single part of the house."
"What are they?"
"Forget-me-nots." She tucked them into her bag and resumed walking.
"What kind of name is that?"
They walked in silence for a while. The sun dipped below the rooftops, casting long shadows across the streets. The first stars appeared, faint at first, then brighter as the sky darkened.
"Can I ask you something else?" Tara said.
"You can ask."
"Why did you really come with me? I was just a stranger."
Hoshimi was quiet for a long moment. The city hummed around them.
"Because you reminded me of my mother," he said.
Tara didn't say anything. Just kept walking, her shoulder brushing against his.
"Isn't that nice? I'm glad that I could help you in any way possible."
They reached her apartment building. The light in the stairwell was still flickering, the smell of mildew still present.
Inside, the apartment was warm and dark, the plants on the windowsill silhouetted against the last light of the day.
Tara flipped on a lamp, casting the room in soft yellow glow.
"You should sleep," she said. "You look tired."
"I'm always tired."
"Then sleep."
She handed him a blanket, the same one from the night before, and pointed at the couch. He lay down without argument, his body sinking into the cushions.
"Goodnight, Hoshimi."
"Goodnight."
She turned off the lamp and walked toward her bedroom. The door clicked shut behind her.
Hoshimi stared at the ceiling. The room was dark, the only light coming from the window, the faint glow of the city filtering through the thin curtains. The plants cast long shadows on the wall.
His body was heavy. His eyes were heavy. But sleep wouldn't come.
He closed his eyes.
Her bedroom door creaked open.
Tara stood in the dim light, her face staring into the mirror ride beside her bed, the table was cluttered with brushes and bottles of makeup.
Sweat poured down her face.
Her hand reached up. Fingers curled around a lock of orange hair.
And she pulled.
The sound was wet.
A tearing, like fabric ripping, but thicker. Heavier. The sound of something that should not be removed being removed. The sound of skin separating from skin.
Strands of dark hair clung to the underside, tangled in the mesh, wet with something that gleamed in the dim light.
A translucent white liquid.
Tara's shoulders sagged. A sound escaped her, not quite a sigh, not quite a gasp. Something in between.
Something that might have been relief.
Beneath the wig, her real hair spilled down her back in dark waves. Black. So black it seemed to absorb the faint light from the window, drinking it in, leaving nothing behind.
She was holding onto a wig.
The room was very quiet. The city hummed outside. The plants on the windowsill cast their long shadows.
Her hand reached up again. Fingers pressed against her usually golden eye.
And she pulled.
The contact lens came away with a wet, sucking sound, a thin thread of moisture trailing behind it. She held it between her thumb and forefinger, examining it in the dim light.
Her eyes were black.
"I guess I got the color close enough," she said. Her voice was different. The warmth was gone, replaced by something older. Something colder. "I couldn't figure out her eye color from the blurry photos."
Her other hand came up. The other contact lens.
Another wet sound.
"I'm tired, better lock the door."