“There’s a ghost in there!” Mariko said. I looked inside to an old man, pale and haggard. He sat cross-legged on a section of raised flooring behind a low display counter full of scissors. He fiddled, focused and deliberate, with some metal object on an impromptu desk made from a toaster-sized wooden block.
The shop, called Yasushige, did look respectably haunted. In the corner a rusted bicycle hugged a tall, unlit display cabinet grinning rows of jagged steel teeth.