Kenji looked out the window at the relentless grey rain. He remembered his wife, Yuki, bringing home a wounded seagull years ago. He had yelled at her then, too. She had nursed it back to health and released it. He remembered how she had smiled that day, a smile he hadn't seen since the sickness took her.
"Yuki," he whispered to the empty room, to the memory of the woman with the soft heart. "She's just like you." momo shina
The voice was graveled with smoke and salt. Momo flinched, clutching the puppy tighter. Standing in the doorway was Kenji Shina, her father. He was a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and thick-handed, the foreman of the yard. He was drying his bald head with a rag, his work uniform stained with grease and fish scales. Kenji looked out the window at the relentless grey rain