The Child Who Drew Monsters

The wind had changed.

It carried the scent of damp earth and something else—something old. The kind of smell that clung to forgotten places, where time moved slower, where shadows lingered longer than they should.

The chef noticed it the moment he unlocked the café door that night. Something was different.

And then, the bell chimed.

A child stood in the doorway.

Small, no older than seven or eight, with a mop of messy black hair and wide, unblinking eyes. He wore an oversized raincoat that dripped onto the wooden floor. In his tiny hands, he clutched a sketchbook, its edges curled and stained with time.

He didn’t speak.

He only stared.

The chef motioned to the counter. “Come in. It’s cold outside.”

The boy hesitated, then took slow steps forward. He climbed onto a stool, setting his sketchbook down carefully, as if it held something fragile.

The chef glanced at it. The pages were covered in drawings—strange, twisted figures. Too detailed for a child. Too real.

He turned toward the stove. “Are you hungry?”

The boy nodded.

The chef worked silently. The gentle sound of the knife against the cutting board, the bubbling of broth—it was comforting. Grounding.

The boy, however, wasn’t watching him. He was watching the empty seat beside him.

The one no one ever sat in.

“Who are you drawing?” the chef asked casually.

The child didn’t answer at first. His pencil scratched against the paper, moving faster, darker. Then, finally—

“They come to me in dreams.”

The chef stilled.

The boy’s hand didn’t stop. “I see them when I sleep. And when I wake up, they’re still there.” His voice was soft, almost thoughtful. “So I draw them. If I don’t… they get angry.”

The chef turned back to the stove. He added miso to the broth, stirring gently.

“What happens when you draw them?”

The boy finally looked up, his dark eyes gleaming under the café lights.

“They leave me alone.”

Outside, the wind howled.

The chef placed a steaming bowl of tamago zosui—a gentle rice porridge, warm and comforting—in front of the child. “Eat,” he said.

The boy picked up his spoon and took a small bite. His shoulders relaxed. For the first time since entering, he looked like a child.

The café was silent for a long time. Only the sound of the spoon against the bowl, the quiet hum of the night.

Then—

The boy set his spoon down and turned his sketchbook around.

The chef looked.

His stomach twisted.

A sketch of the café. Perfectly detailed. Every table, every chair, every flickering light. And standing behind the counter—himself.

But something was wrong.

In the drawing, the chef wasn’t alone.

A shadow loomed behind him—tall, thin, with hollow eyes and a grin too wide, too sharp.

The chef’s fingers curled slightly against the counter. He hadn’t heard anyone enter.

Slowly, he looked up.

The café was empty.

Only the boy sat there, watching him carefully. “Do you see it now?” he asked.

The chef exhaled. He reached for the sketchbook, flipping the pages. More figures. More faces. Some he recognized. Some… he wished he didn’t.

His hands stilled on one particular drawing. A face, half-hidden in shadow. Familiar. Too familiar.

The chef closed the sketchbook. “You should go home.”

The boy tilted his head. “I don’t have one.”

The wind slammed against the windows.

The chef looked down at the child again—really looked. The damp raincoat. The worn-out shoes. The way his shadow stretched just a little too far under the flickering café lights.

He had seen this before.

The boy stared at him, waiting. Expectant.

The chef’s voice was quieter now. “Who told you to come here?”

The child finally smiled. It was too knowing. Too old.

“You did.”

The bell above the door chimed.

And when the chef looked up again—

The boy was gone.

All that remained was the sketchbook, sitting on the counter. The chef opened it, flipping back to the last page.

The drawing had changed.

The shadow behind the chef was closer now.

And this time—it had a hand on his shoulder.

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