Nana's mother arrived on a Saturday.
Kurashima Fumie — sixty-two, soft dark hair gone mostly silver, the same warm tired eyes she had passed to her daughter. She came with a single bag and the particular energy of a woman who had raised three daughters alone and found most situations manageable by comparison.
She had not met Kaito yet.
She had heard about him.
From Nana — carefully, gradually, over phone calls that had become longer since Okinawa. From Hana — who had called her grandmother on three separate occasions to report developments with the focused energy of a seven-year-old correspondent. From Saki — once, in a single text message that said: He passed everything. You should meet him.
Fumie had come.
He was in the kitchen when Nana brought her mother in.
Making tea — the automatic hospitality of someone who had been in this kitchen long enough to know where everything was. He heard them come in and turned around.
Looked at Fumie.
She looked at him.
One second.
