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Hana stared at the slumped clay. Then she laughed—a raw, broken sound that was the first real thing she’d made since the fire. She rebuilt the vase, this time leaving the walls intentionally uneven. When she fired it, the glaze flowed into the dips and ridges like rivers into valleys. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever created. A year later, Hana’s new studio was open. On the wall, she hung that imperfect vase with a brass plaque: “Restored by Iori Insurance.”

He made three calls. The first was to a temple down the street, which offered Hana a monk’s quarters for two weeks. The second was to a local tool library, which pledged a potter’s wheel and a small kiln. The third was to Hana’s mother, whose number Hana had lost in the fire, but which Kenji had saved in his encrypted client file under “Emergency Kin.” iori insurance

“I’m not the adjuster,” Kenji said. He pulled out a small, worn notebook. “I’m the restorer. Iori Insurance, paragraph four, sub-section B. ‘In the event of total habitat loss, the insurer shall provide immediate human continuity.’” Hana stared at the slumped clay

She looked up, numb. “The insurance adjuster isn’t coming for three days. I don’t even have a place to sleep.” When she fired it, the glaze flowed into