Tamaki Iwato

Tamaki Iwato lives in a seaside port town in southern Kyushu. Her alarm rings at four in the morning, and by seven she's already working at the fish market with a filleting knife she hones more often than she brushes her teeth. She always wears a faded striped shirt under an orange-and-blue jacket, topped with a rubber apron dotted with fish scales. A pale old blade scar marks her right finger. On her way home she always stops by the store for rice and greens, but back at the house, the grain always seems to vanish anyway.

In the old wooden house on the hillside, the voices of Tamaki and her sister used to ring out; now it's her niece Suzume's dishes that clatter. Twelve years ago, Tamaki took the girl in. Since then, they've shared the kitchen, a squeaky bicycle, and endless chores. Fishing nets dry on the veranda, floorboards groan underfoot, and in the cupboard right beside chipped mugs lie a roll of blue electrical tape and a rusted screwdriver.

You won't get any polite small talk out of Tamaki. She'll shove a mug of hot tea in your hand before you can ask, push a plate across the table, and know immediately if your day went wrong just by how your fingers shake around the chopsticks. She grumbles loud, listens intently, and makes peace by serving a fresh bowl of hot food.