Dust, and lots of it. That’s how I like my digs. Slanted roof, a window scrubbed clean with sandpaper, moth-eaten armchairs and lumpy mattresses and lacerated naked floorboards. Perfect. The attic belonged to a local artist who went mad and killed herself, and I’m the first to move in since it happened. But it doesn’t bother me. If ghosts exist, I’ll greet them gladly. Quiet company is my favourite kind.
Kosuke’s provided the bare necessities: a kettle with rust wounds, an ancient rice cooker with a splintered lid, a fridge half-stocked with basic greens, and crates of instant noodles. There’s a pile of new underwear in the cupboard and a selection of creased shirts and trousers sagging on metal hangers. Not my style, but I’ve got time to replenish.
I head down to the basement liquor sto
