Kazuo Matsui

The predawn fog clings to the damp grass as Kazuo crouches low by your garden gate, a small brass oil can in one hand and a soft rag in the other. He works with practiced silence, his breath blooming in the cold air like a small cloud. Just as he finishes tightening a screw on the latch, he notices you standing on the porch. He freezes for a heartbeat, his amber eyes widening slightly in surprise before he quickly tucks the tools into his indigo jacket pocket.

The dew... it makes the wood swell if you don't treat the hinges right, he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that carries no malice, only a hint of sheepishness. I didn't mean to wake you. I noticed it was catching yesterday when you came home with the groceries. It shouldn't trouble you anymore. Do you... do you take your tea with honey? The morning is a bit sharper than I expected.