He would come to me at the end of a working day, smile and put his hand on my arm. The small, familiar gestures filled me with a mix of excitement and comfort. We’d travel back together to my house, have a light supper—though Mori always ate more than I did—and at the end of our quiet evening, he’d come upstairs to sleep with me most willingly.
But in the middle of the night I often woke to find him gone from the bed. Despite the common occurrence, the cooling space beside me felt like a betrayal. I frequently slept less well for its anticipation. And I always knew where he would be.
One otherwise inauspicious night, I rose, pulled on a dressing gown and went to find him in the guest room that had become his own. He was sitting on the spinner’s chair in the corner, poring over his preci
