The Man Who Brought Rain

The night was restless. Eclipse Café had seen fewer visitors than usual, but the storm outside refused to let the city sleep. Rain hammered against the alleyway, sliding down neon signs in endless streams. Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and menacing.

The chef watched the storm through the café’s fogged-up window, his hands steady as he poured freshly brewed tea into a ceramic cup. Something was coming.

And then—the door opened.

A man stepped inside, dripping wet. His long black coat was soaked through, his boots leaving a trail of water on the wooden floor. He moved slowly, as if he had been walking for a long time. Too long.

The chef took one look at him and knew.

Some guests carried their stories on their faces. Others… brought them in with the rain.

The man sat at the counter, silent. His wet hair clung to his forehead, rainwater slipping down his jaw. His hands, resting on the counter, looked rough—scarred, as if they had held too much, lost too much.

The chef placed the steaming cup of tea in front of him. The man stared at it for a moment before exhaling slowly. "You remember what I like."

The chef wiped his hands on a cloth. "It’s been a long time."

The man chuckled, low and bitter. "Yes. It has." He lifted the cup, taking a careful sip. He winced. Too hot. But he didn’t complain.

Outside, the rain didn’t let up.

"You know," the man murmured, staring into his tea, "I thought I was done walking. But the road… it doesn’t seem to end, does it?"

The chef didn’t answer. He turned to the stove instead, setting a pan over the flame. A familiar rhythm followed—the sizzle of butter, the soft crack of an egg, the quiet pop of rice hitting the heat. Oyakodon. A dish of chicken and egg, layered over steaming rice.

The man watched, eyes dark with something unreadable. "You always knew what to make."

The chef remained silent. He didn’t ask where the man had been. He didn’t ask why he was here. He already knew.

The bowl was placed in front of him, steam curling in delicate ribbons. The man picked up his chopsticks and took a bite. Slow. Reverent.

Then—he stopped.

His fingers tightened around the chopsticks. His jaw clenched.

"Still warm," he whispered.

The chef met his gaze. The storm outside was getting louder.

The man set his chopsticks down, his shoulders trembling slightly. "I forgot what warmth felt like," he admitted. His voice was quieter now, like the rain softening before dawn.

The chef leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "And now?"

The man exhaled. "Now…" He pushed the empty bowl forward, nodding once. Satisfied.

A long silence stretched between them. The storm outside was already beginning to fade.

The man stood, adjusting his coat. The rain had soaked through the fabric, but now—it no longer dripped.

He reached into his pocket, placing something on the counter.

A single coin. Old. Rusted at the edges.

The chef glanced at it, then back at the man. "This is all you’re leaving behind?"

The man smiled. For the first time that night, it reached his eyes. And in those eyes, the rain had finally stopped.

"It’s all I have left," he said.

The door opened. Not with the wind—but with something gentler.

The man stepped out. The streetlights flickered. The alley, once drowned in storm, was now dry.

The chef looked down at the counter.

The coin was gone.

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