In the garden there is a bird fountain. It’s a strange little thing: an angel holding a bowl full of murky water for the crows to drink and waggle their tails in. It’s exactly the same as the bird fountain that used to sit underneath the gumtrees at home. There’s something sinister to it—almost like the angel is watching me as I clean and cook and learn Japanese and sketch and refresh the jobs page over and over. It takes me weeks, but I realise: it looks like my mother. A magical realism tale about loss.