The Man in the Fog

The streets outside Eclipse Café were drowned in mist, the usual neon glow of Tokyo barely piercing through the thick veil. The alley felt quieter tonight. Too quiet.

The chef stood behind the counter, absentmindedly drying a ceramic cup. The air inside the café was warm, filled with the scent of simmering broth and grilled fish. The clock on the wall ticked softly—12:45 AM.

The door creaked open.

A man stepped inside.

His presence was strange—not because of how he looked, but because of how he felt. His suit was neat but slightly outdated, his hair slicked back in a style that hadn’t been fashionable for decades. A thin layer of moisture clung to his clothes, as if he had been standing in the fog for far too long.

The chef’s fingers tightened around the cup. He knew this type of guest.

The man took a slow, deliberate seat at the counter. His hands rested on the wooden surface, long fingers tapping rhythmically, like a heartbeat.

"You’re still here," he said, voice smooth but distant.

The chef placed the cup down. "And you’ve found your way back."

The man let out a low chuckle. "I didn’t think I would." His gaze swept across the café, eyes lingering on the flickering lanterns. "It looks exactly the same."

The chef didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for the pot behind him, setting water to boil.

"You must be hungry," he said.

The man hummed in agreement, but there was something off about the way he did it. Like hunger wasn’t something he had felt in a long time.

The chef pulled out a small lacquered tray. Yakizakana—grilled fish, lightly salted, served with daikon radish and a bowl of miso soup. Simple. Earthly. Grounding.

The man smiled as the dish was placed in front of him. "You always knew exactly what to serve," he mused, picking up the chopsticks. He took a slow bite of the fish, chewing carefully, as if testing whether he could still taste it.

Then, his expression changed.

He swallowed, setting the chopsticks down. "I remember now," he murmured.

The chef met his gaze. "What do you remember?"

The man exhaled, rubbing his temple. "This café… I came here after work. Always late. Always alone." He let out a small laugh. "You told me once that I was a man who lived between the hours of others. That my life started when everyone else’s ended."

The chef remained silent.

The man’s fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. "I worked late shifts. Too many. I barely saw my wife. My daughter. I told myself I was doing it for them, but…" His voice trailed off.

The chef placed a small sake cup in front of him. Not filled. Just empty.

The man stared at it. "Ah," he said quietly.

The fog outside grew thicker. The café lights flickered.

"I never made it home that night, did I?" he asked.

The chef didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

The man let out a soft sigh. He reached for the chopsticks again, taking another bite. One last taste.

Outside, the fog began to retreat.

The man stood, straightening his suit. He looked at the chef, something unreadable in his expression. Gratitude. Regret.

"Thank you," he murmured. "For keeping this place open."

The door swung open behind him. But there was no wind.

The man stepped through.

The chef waited. The door remained open for a moment longer—as if something unseen was hesitating.

Then, softly, it closed.

The seat at the counter was empty.

The sake cup was gone.

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