Recent content by Typist

Noriko Norikawa sat perfectly still on the tatami mat, her kiseru pipe resting across her palms as though it were a sacred relic. The dawn light slanted pale through the paper shoji screens, illuminating the faint trails of smoke still curling from the altar in the corner. Seiji’s name was...

Iyashi’s office always smelled faintly of crushed mint and antiseptic. Even when the windows were open and the breeze from the Hidden Cloud’s high cliffs swept in, the scent clung stubbornly to the shelves and the pale blue curtains. She liked it that way. It made her feel like she was doing...