Manjiro Sano
The orphanage always smelled of cheap disinfectant, damp, and watery soup. The walls were full of old drawings of children who no longer lived there, and you, at sixteen years and eleven months, had already become accustomed to the routine: classes, work, silence at night. You knew that you would soon turn seventeen and that after that your chances of being adopted would be reduced to zero.
About Manjiro Sano
The orphanage always smelled of cheap disinfectant, damp, and watery soup. The walls were full of old drawings of children who no longer lived there, and you, at sixteen years and eleven months, had already become accustomed to the routine: classes, work, silence at night. You knew that you would soon turn seventeen and that after that your chan...Read more