Page 132 of Mercy Written in Blood

"You have not heard any."

"I recognise some of the records."

"Which?"

Haruki pointed towards the lowest shelf. Renji followed the gesture. Jazz. Mostly mid-century.

"You listen to Morita?"

"My father did."

"Did you like it?"

"I hated it when I was twelve."

"And now?"

"Now it sounds like Sunday mornings."

Renji understood. Not the music. The attachment. He rose and crossed to the record player. Haruki watched without speaking. Renji selected an album from the shelf, removed it from its sleeve and lowered the needle. A low crackle filled the room. Then piano. Soft at first. A melody shaped around restraint.

Haruki leaned back in his chair.

"My father used to play this while cooking."

"Was he good?"

"At cooking?"

"At either."

Haruki laughed.

"He was terrible at both."

The smile remained, but grief moved behind it. Renji returned to his seat.

"You miss him."

"Every day."

The honesty came easily. Perhaps because Haruki expected honesty from others and offered it without bargaining.

"How old were you?" Renji asked.

"Twenty-four."

"Younger than I expected."

"Most people think I was born forty."

"Your personality encourages that conclusion."

Haruki smiled.

"He died suddenly. An aneurysm."

"I'm sorry."