‘It doesn’t just look easy to use – it does actually make the whole job easier. If you’d like it, it’s yours. To celebrate,’ Mr Itadori said serenely, his eyes suddenly twinkling.

‘Celebrate what?’

On this of all days. The worst day of my life.

‘Somehow I get the feeling from watching you, Tomura, that you’re on your way now. So I thought this was a moment worth celebrating.’

‘Thank you very much.’ My lips quivered. Mr Itadori was trying to encourage me. I was standing at the entrance to the forest and here he was telling me I was on the right path.

So many times I’d watched furtively as he cleaned the tuning hammers, longing to hold one, desperate to learn more about the tools he used and how best to handle them. I never imagined I’d get to have one of my very own so soon.

‘Mr Itadori, can I ask you a question?’ I clasped the tuning hammer tightly in my right hand. ‘What sort of sound do you aim for when you tune?’

The question I’d been holding in for so long.

‘The sound I aim for?’ he asked, relaxed as ever, leaning back in his seat, arms behind his head.

I hoped that, as far as possible, his answer would be neither too specific nor unattainable.

‘Tomura, are you familiar with Tamiki Hara?’

I’d heard the name. I didn’t think he was a piano tuner. Was he a concert pianist?

‘This is the way he put it.’ Mr Itadori cleared his throat and sat up. ‘Bright, quiet, crystal-clear writing that evokes fond memories, that seems a touch sentimental yet is unsparing and deep, writing as lovely as a dream, yet as exact as reality.’

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but then it hit me. Tamiki Hara was a novelist. A name I’d learned at school in Japanese literature lessons.

‘Tamiki Hara wrote that he was enraptured by this kind of writing, and when I first read his words I was carried away. I felt that this exactly described the ideal sound I was hoping for.’

He’d substituted sound for writing.

‘I’m sorry, but could you say that all again?’ I said, taking a seat.

I wanted to listen extra carefully the second time around.

‘One more time, that’s all,’ Mr Itadori said, stretching his arms above his head, pulling at his brown suede jacket – a garment that had seen much better days. He cleared his throat again. ‘Bright, quiet, crystal-clear writing that evokes fond memories, that seems a touch sentimental yet is unsparing and deep, writing as lovely as a dream, yet as exact as reality.’

That’s precisely the sound Mr Itadori produced – the sound that changed my world for ever. It had taken four years and now I was finally here. I was compelled to forge ahead. It was the only way open to me.