Ishiguro seems to have a talent for leaving things unsaid. There are subtle hints and clues to lead you in the right direction, you can choose to see however much depth you wish to add for yourself. Regret is such a painful and powerful thing, and seems to be so much worse if it is not acknowledged by one so obviously suffering from it. This novel is slow, melancholic and deeply affecting. It was difficult to read in short bursts, I enjoyed it more when I gave it proper dedicated time. I think it deserves to be treated like this, lest you miss the things that are not said.