Sometimes, when she walked on the edge of their Akihabara loft, or just stood up against the bay window, a vague silhouette, a body without contrasts, her bare shoulder kissed by the thermochromic glass that tinted at her heat, his hand pushing toward the void and the infinite grid of Tokyo, Alex felt afraid that Ayame could disappear in the night that spread out her terminal ink. Vanish with the last lights of the megalopolis, as if she had been a nonbreaking part of it. Incarnated kami for temporary use.

Tokyo Monogatari
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