The First Guest

"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.

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