"Every midnight, the Eclipse Café awakens—not just for the living, but for those who refuse to be forgotten."

The rain drizzled lightly over Tokyo’s neon-lit streets, making the alleyways shimmer like liquid glass. Hidden between two old buildings, where no sign should have existed, a single, dimly glowing board flickered against the darkness—Eclipse Café.

The door slid open with a soft creak, releasing a faint trail of steam into the cold night. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of broth, burnt wood, and something unplaceable—like the distant echo of a forgotten past.

Behind the wooden counter, the chef stood in quiet contemplation. He wasn’t young, nor was he old. His sharp, knowing eyes watched the entrance as he wiped down the counter. He had no nameplate, no introduction—just an air of someone who had seen and heard far more than he let on.

At exactly 12:00 AM, the first guest of the night arrived.

A young woman in a soaked trench coat hesitated at the doorway. She looked around, her brows knitting together as if trying to remember why she had come.

"Welcome," the chef said, his voice low and even. "Take a seat."

She moved stiffly, as if unsure whether she belonged here. Her fingers trembled as she placed them on the smooth wooden counter.

"Did you get lost?" the chef asked.

She let out a short, humorless laugh. "Maybe. I don’t even remember how I got here."

The chef nodded as if he had heard this before. He turned towards the kitchen, his hands moving with an effortless rhythm. A pot began to simmer, the scent of soy sauce and dashi filling the air.

"You look cold," he said. "I'll make something warm."

She didn’t respond. Her eyes were fixed on the rain outside, lost in thought. The chef stole a glance at her reflection in the glass window. Something about it was... off. The rain blurred the city lights, but her reflection stood too still, too sharp—like it didn’t quite belong.

As the soup boiled, the woman finally spoke. "I used to come here," she murmured. "A long time ago. But that’s not possible, right? I mean... I don't think this place even existed back then."

The chef’s hand tightened slightly around the ladle, but his expression remained unreadable. "Memories can be strange," he said, ladling the steaming broth into a bowl.

He placed the dish before her. A simple bowl of kitsune udon—thick noodles bathed in golden broth, topped with a single, glistening piece of fried tofu.

She stared at it, her breath hitching. "This... was my favorite dish when I was a kid," she whispered. "My mother used to make it for me before she—"

She stopped. Her fingers curled around the chopsticks, but she didn’t pick them up.

The chef remained silent, watching.

A single tear slipped down her cheek. Then, slowly, she picked up a piece of tofu and took a bite.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of rain, the quiet hum of the city outside.

Then, she smiled—a soft, bittersweet smile. "I remember now," she whispered.

She turned to look at the chef, her lips parting as if to say something else. But before the words could come, the bell above the door jingled.

The chef blinked.

The seat in front of him was empty.

The chopsticks rested neatly on the rim of the bowl, the broth untouched—except for a single bite missing from the tofu.

The chef let out a slow breath. Then, without a word, he picked up the bowl, poured the broth down the sink, and placed the empty dish onto a rack.

12:30 AM.

He turned back to the counter. The next guest would arrive soon.

And the night was just beginning.

The faint chime of the café’s entrance bell echoed through the dimly lit space. The chef didn’t look up immediately—he was drying a porcelain bowl, hands moving with quiet precision. The rain outside had softened to a mist, and the neon glow from the Tokyo streets barely reached the alleyway where Eclipse Café stood.

The door shut with a soft click.

A man took a seat at the counter, exhaling heavily as he pulled off his fogged-up glasses. He was middle-aged, wearing a suit that had seen better days. His tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, revealing a faint bruise on his collarbone. He looked exhausted, but not in the way a man does after a long day of work—his tiredness felt deeper, older, like he had been running from something for far too long.

The chef finally looked up. "Long night?"

The man chuckled dryly, rubbing his temples. "Long life," he muttered. "Do you serve something strong?"

The chef raised an eyebrow. "Depends. You looking for alcohol or something that warms the soul?"

The man let out a bitter laugh. "I don’t think I have a soul left to warm."

The chef said nothing. He turned to the stove, his movements slow, deliberate. A pot of water began to simmer, the scent of miso and seaweed filling the air. He pulled out a small clay bowl and began preparing something unseen.

The man glanced around, his gaze lingering on the empty tables. "I used to come here," he said, frowning slightly. "Years ago. But that’s impossible, isn’t it?"

The chef kept his focus on the pot. "Why do you think it’s impossible?"

"Because…" The man hesitated. "This place… It doesn’t look like it’s aged at all."

The chef placed a steaming bowl in front of him—butajiru, a rich pork miso soup. The aroma was deep and comforting, carrying an unmistakable warmth. "Eat while it’s hot," the chef said.

The man stared at the dish, his fingers twitching slightly as he reached for the spoon. He took a careful sip.

His hands stopped shaking.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Just ate. Slowly, methodically, as if each bite was unraveling something inside him.

Finally, he sighed. "I used to come here with my wife," he murmured. "She loved this place. Loved your food. We used to sit right there—" He gestured toward an empty table by the window. "—talk about everything and nothing until dawn."

The chef glanced toward the table. The faint reflection of the rain-streaked glass flickered.

"I made a mistake," the man continued, voice quieter now. "A stupid mistake that cost me everything." His fingers curled around the edge of the counter. "She left. And I—"

He stopped, shaking his head. "Doesn’t matter."

The chef leaned slightly against the counter. "If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be here."

The man let out a small, tired smile. "I guess not." He set down his spoon, pushing the empty bowl away. "Thank you," he said. "I don’t think I’ve felt this… full in years."

The chef nodded once. "That’s what food is for."

The man stood, adjusting his tie. "How much do I owe you?"

The chef wiped the counter clean. "This one’s on the house."

The man opened his mouth as if to argue, then stopped. Something flickered in his expression—recognition, understanding, or perhaps just exhaustion. He exhaled, nodding in quiet gratitude.

He turned toward the door. As he reached for the handle, he paused.

"She used to say something," he murmured, almost to himself. "That this café felt… different. Like time didn’t move the same way in here."

The chef remained silent.

The man chuckled under his breath. "Guess she was right."

With that, he stepped outside. The door shut behind him, and the bell gave its final soft chime.

The chef turned back to the counter, where the empty bowl sat. The spoon rested inside, perfectly still.

In the rain-slicked window, the reflection of the table by the glass wavered slightly.

For just a second—only a second—there were two people sitting there.

Then, the image was gone.

The air inside Eclipse Café was thick with the scent of simmering broth, the faint traces of rain, and something… unplaceable. The chef wiped down the counter, waiting.

Then, the door slid open without a sound.

A woman stepped in, draped in a crimson kimono embroidered with golden sakura blossoms. Her geta sandals made no noise against the wooden floor. Her long black hair flowed in soft waves, her pale face framed by delicate features. But it was her eyes that stood out—deep, dark pools that did not reflect the light.

She took a seat at the counter, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Then, she smiled.

"You’re still here," she murmured.

The chef met her gaze, unreadable. He didn’t ask how she knew him. Some questions weren’t meant to be spoken aloud.

"You don’t look surprised," she mused. "Most people are."

He turned to the stove, lighting the flame with a steady hand. "Would you like something to eat?"

The woman hummed, tapping a single finger against the counter in thought. "You always made my favorite dish," she said. "Do you still remember it?"

The chef’s hands never hesitated. A pot of water began to boil. He reached for the ingredients—thin soba noodles, freshly sliced green onions, a single poached egg. The steam curled upwards, carrying a familiar scent.

"You came here often," he said quietly, cracking the egg into the broth.

The woman’s smile didn’t fade. "I did."

"And then you stopped."

A pause. Then, her voice softened. "Yes."

The chef carefully poured the hot broth into a lacquered bowl, placing the soba noodles inside with precise movements. Finally, he set it before her. Tamago Soba. A simple dish—comforting, familiar.

She stared at it for a long time, fingers resting lightly on the counter.

"I missed this," she whispered.

"Then eat," the chef said.

She lifted the chopsticks, carefully picking up a strand of noodles. She brought it to her lips, took a bite—and then froze.

Her fingers trembled. Her breath hitched.

The air in the café shifted.

The steam rising from her bowl curled unnaturally, forming delicate patterns that resembled… kanji. Names. Names that had long been forgotten.

Slowly, she set the chopsticks down. Her eyes flickered—not with hunger, but with memory.

"You never asked where I went," she said.

The chef remained still. "Would it change anything?"

A shadow passed over her face. For the first time, she looked… sad.

"No," she admitted. "It wouldn’t."

She placed her hands on her lap, the red silk of her kimono pooling like spilled ink. The warmth from the soba bowl cast a faint glow on her pale skin, but her reflection in the window didn’t move.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The city lights flickered, distorted through the glass.

She turned to look at the chef one last time. "Thank you," she whispered.

The door slid open again—on its own.

The woman stood. Her kimono barely rustled as she stepped toward the exit.

And then—she was gone.

The chef exhaled softly. He reached for the bowl she had left behind.

It was completely untouched.

But the seat where she had sat… was still warm.