The Woman Who Wore Red

The rain had passed, leaving behind a damp chill in the air. Tokyo’s neon lights flickered against wet pavement, their glow stretching like ghostly fingers through the narrow alley where Eclipse Café stood.

Inside, the chef rinsed a pot, the rhythmic sound of water filling the quiet space. It was almost 3 AM. Too late for new customers. Too early for morning stragglers.

Then—the door creaked open.

A woman stepped inside.

She was striking—tall, with dark hair cascading in loose waves over a crimson dress. Too elegant for a late-night diner. Too composed for someone wandering these streets alone.

The chef’s grip on the pot tightened. She was not an ordinary guest.

She walked to the counter, the scent of jasmine lingering in her wake. Her heels barely made a sound against the wooden floor. Not a single drop of rain clung to her.

She sat gracefully, crossing one leg over the other. Her lips, painted the same shade as her dress, curled into a smile. "You don’t look surprised."

The chef set the pot down. "Should I be?"

She tilted her head. "Most people are."

He reached for the tea leaves, preparing a fresh brew. "You’re not most people."

The woman chuckled—a sound that carried both warmth and something else. Something cold.

Outside, the streetlamp flickered.

"Do you know what I want?" she asked.

The chef placed a teacup in front of her. "People who come here rarely do."

Her smile deepened. "You’re clever."

Steam curled between them as she lifted the cup, taking a delicate sip. Her red nails tapped softly against the porcelain. "I’ve been walking for a long time," she murmured. "Looking for something. Or maybe… waiting."

The chef pulled out a pan, setting it over the flame. "For what?"

Her gaze lingered on the fire. "A taste I lost long ago."

The knife moved. Swift. Precise.

Thin slices of beef sizzled in the pan. The chef added soy sauce, mirin, a touch of sugar. The aroma of caramelized meat filled the air. Gyudon. A dish both rich and comforting.

He placed the bowl before her. "Try it."

She picked up the chopsticks, twirling them between her fingers before finally taking a bite.

Her expression shifted.

The red of her lips parted slightly. Her posture, once poised, softened. For a moment, she wasn’t a woman in a crimson dress. She was someone else. Somewhere else.

She closed her eyes. "It tastes like home," she whispered.

The chef watched as she took another bite. Savoring. Remembering.

Then, she set the chopsticks down and let out a slow sigh. Not sadness. Not relief. Something in between.

"I think I’ve found what I was looking for," she said.

The chef wiped his hands. "And now?"

Her smile returned—but this time, it was gentler.

"Now," she murmured, standing gracefully, "I should go."

The air around her shifted. The café lights dimmed for just a second.

The chef said nothing as she turned toward the door.

But before stepping out, she placed something on the counter. A single red camellia.

The door opened. A breeze passed through.

And then—she was gone.

The chef looked down at the flower.

By morning, it would wither. But for now, it remained.

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