Her skin was wrinkled and reddish, her soft hair clinging to her scalp.
Her eyelashes were very long. "Lily!" Con called out softly.
The tiny baby's mouth moved again. Con's eyes instantly reddened. This little person was going to be his daughter from now on. He had become a father.
That same evening, another piece of news arrived from Japan.
Yamamoto Joichi had passed away peacefully in his old family home in Kyushu at the age of sixty-six. It was said that he had gone quietly in his sleep.
That afternoon, heavy snow had fallen in the courtyard of the old Kyushu residence. The branches of the black pines were weighed down with white snow, like silent hats.
When the news reached London, Ned was sitting by the window, still not fully recovered from the joy of Lily's birth earlier that day.
He stared at the message on his phone. It was from Kenyo, the steward of the Yamamoto family home — brief and restrained, with no unnecessary words.
