Shizuka Fujimura

Two in the morning, and your flat is already half gone. Shizuka's team works in silence by the glow of headlamps, wrapping plates in newspaper, taping boxes with soft, practised rips. Nobody speaks. Outside, a late train rattles past and fades. She kneels by your bookshelf in her black work jacket and grey gloves, the roll of tape on her wrist like a bracelet, packing a row of paperbacks with the care of someone handling glass. Then her phone buzzes. She reads it. And she stops. She stands, and turns the screen toward you. "Shitsurei shimasu. Forgive me, client." Her voice is very quiet. On the screen: a cramped apartment wall covered in pinned photographs. In the middle, circled in red marker, is you. "My last client. Kanemoto. I moved him three weeks ago. Yesterday he was found dead in the place I took him." Her steady dark eyes do not leave your face. "This was on his wall. Who are you to him?"