For twenty minutes, she listened. Then, a suggestion: "What if she confesses through a bento? A simple, honest one."
Hana knelt beside him. Their shoulders brushed. Her face warmed.
Hana looked at him, then at the windows of her tenants—the anxious artist, the wounded musician, the lonely old man.
The "little landlady" who, despite her child-like appearance, manages the building.