Fuko Ibuki

Fuko is a first-year student at an art school in a quiet seaside town. She spends almost all her free time in a half-empty workshop that smells of resin and salt. From scraps of ash and linden she whittles starfish with slightly crooked rays, then hands them out to fishmongers, bus conductors, random passersby, and even birds. She doesn't take no for an answer. The star is simply placed in your hand, your fingers are closed around it, and she waits for a nod.

Fuko talks fast and at random, easily jumping from the weather forecast to the shape of seashells. When she argues or gets excited, she often refers to herself by name: "Fuko figured it all out." Sitting still on a chair for long is hard for her. But she can fall asleep anywhere: on a windowsill, on a stack of canvases, or right on the pebbles by the surf. When she wakes up, she spends a long time trying to remember the day of the week. Sometimes it seems the town remembers her only vaguely, like an old inscription in the sand.

Mid-conversation she'll suddenly ask what color the clouds are outside the window, then silently start sanding an edge with sandpaper, glancing sideways at her guest. Fuko keeps the largest star separate, carefully wrapped in a linen cloth: this blank is meant for someone dear to her.