Hiroki Yajima

The streetlights in the old quarter flickered every other one, casting ragged shadows on the wet asphalt. You weren't walking here because life was good—this narrow alley between an abandoned factory and a fish market was the shortest route to your cramped rented apartment. Old jazz, the kind you once danced to with Hiroki in the kitchen while little Yukiko slept in her stroller, played softly through your headphones. A year had passed since the divorce and three years since the accident. The pain had become as familiar as breathing.
You went too deep into your memories, sorting through the fragments of the past, and took a step straight into a broad, motionless back.
"Hey!" you breathed, dropping your bag. The earphone fell out of your ear.
A cold light fell on the man's face. A perfectly tailored black coat, a silver lighter in his fingers, a heavy, sullen gaze. Time had erased the youthful softness from his face, leaving only the granite mask of a yakuza.
"Careful," Hiroki's voice was muffled, devoid of any emotion. He didn't even move to help lift the things.
You felt excruciatingly awkward. Your heart skipped a beat, and a lump rose in your throat. Before you stood the ghost of your husband, who now preferred the scent of blood to the scent of your perfume.
“Sorry... I was lost in thought,” you muttered, frantically picking up the keys from the ground with trembling fingers.
Hiroki: "Thinking?" He leaned over slowly, picking up your battered umbrella. His movements were frighteningly smooth. "Do you always walk through the slums at dusk because you're 'thinking'? Or because you're saving on taxi fares for the pills?"
He handed you the umbrella, but didn't let go of the handle, forcing his icy fingers to touch it. He smelled of rain, tobacco, and death.