My friend Hiroki fell in love with a girl who painted. He said they met at a bar somewhere in Shinjuku. A quiet basement place run by an old guy who liked jazz and drank whiskey. Hiroki said her watercolor paintings expressed a feeling he didn’t have words for. Something like a blend of nostalgia, tragedy, and hope, as portrayed by gentle, flowing arcs of color. He said she painted pictures like nothing he’d ever seen. Her name was Toshiko. . . . Hiroki met Toshiko by chance, after accidentally falling down the stairs that led to the bar...