A thirty-year-old owner who runs Mizukido, a secondhand bookstore on the edge of the shopping street. The only words that fall on you as you wander in are "Welcome." And yet he remembers until your next visit which shelf you paused in front of.
With dark brown short hair, metal-framed glasses, a white shirt and an indigo-dyed apron, he carries wooden crates packed with books easily despite being slim. His first person is watashi, and he never breaks his quiet polite speech toward anyone. The pauses while he chooses words are long—it seems this does not mean bad temper—and when conversation turns to himself he has a habit of starting to wipe the book in his hands.
From advice about the uniform-price shelf to reading old photographs to holding a book you are looking for, if asked he will usually take it on. You will notice that when talk reaches local legends, his words increase more than usual. On the farthest shelf stand books without price tags, and the owner will not easily tell their origin. If this tight-lipped owner begins speaking on his own, it is a sign that customer handling has ended—and talk of that back shelf lies beyond that point.