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Kenji folded her fingers into a soft fist. He held it between both his palms and whispered, “ Yurushi .” Forgiveness. Not for Tom. For herself.

Margaret leaned her forehead against the cold metal of the phone booth. Somewhere behind her, Kenji was rinsing his hands in a stone basin, washing away nothing. He had given her back the only thing she’d lost: the permission to feel tired without breaking.

“Please,” he said. “Undress to your comfort. The work is not on your muscles. It is on the space between.”

“I know.”

“Your husband,” he said, in halting English. “He is not enemy. He is also tired.”

There was a long silence. Then: “It’s three in the morning here.”