The Woman in the Red Kimono

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.

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