“My grandmother used to say,” she started, rolling the lollipop between her fingers, “that when you say ‘ohitori desu ka’ to someone, you’re not really asking if they’re alone. You’re asking if they’re lonely.”
“Hana,” she said. “What’s yours?” oniisan… ohitori desu ka?
I laughed—a short, broken sound. “That’s pretty wise for a kid.” “My grandmother used to say,” she started, rolling
Then she was gone, swallowed by the deepening blue, and I was left with a half-eaten rice cracker, a broken sandal strap left behind on the stone, and the sound of my own heart—still beating, still here, still possible. “That’s pretty wise for a kid
She nodded, as if that was the right answer. Then she let go of my hand, picked up her knapsack, and started down the steps. At the second landing, she stopped and looked back.