A novel that hurts quietly. Nothing explodes, no one makes grand speeches, and yet every page feels like time slipping through your fingers. The voice telling the story is calm, almost too calm, and that calmness is what makes the book unsettling. Life moves forward in ordinary ways: friendships form, small jealousies sting, love appears hesitantly. But beneath it all runs a constant sense that time is limited, even when no one openly says so. What Ishiguro captures painfully well is how people learn to live within boundaries they never chose. There is no dramatic rebellion here, only adjustment. The characters do not lack feeling; they simply learn, early on, not to want too much. Love exists, but it does not rescue. Memory exists, but it cannot rewrite fate. The sadness comes not from cruelty, but from acceptance. The realization that a system can be deeply unjust and still feel normal to those raised inside it. yet, woven into this restraint is something unexpectedly tender. The idea of "Norfolk", the place where all lost things are supposed to go, an idea that the lost things are still there untouched waiting for you to reclaim it,lingers like a fragile comfort. It feels less like a real location and more like hope disguised as geography. Maybe it is just a story they tell themselves to survive. Maybe, somewhere in that imagined corner, all the moments Kathy and Tommy never got to live still exist: untouched,waiting for them to unravel it. The novel ends without promises, but with the quiet possibility that even lives shaped by loss leave something meaningful behind. And somehow, that small hope makes the sadness hurt a bit more.