The Woman in the Rain

The night smelled of wet pavement and something metallic. A storm had passed through earlier, leaving behind a city that gleamed under neon lights. The Eclipse Café had just opened when the bell above the door chimed.

A woman stood there.

Drenched.

She wore a white dress, the fabric clinging to her frame, her long black hair dripping onto the wooden floor. Her face was pale, almost colorless. But her eyes—sharp, dark, and unblinking—fixed directly on the chef.

She stepped inside.

Water pooled beneath her bare feet as she moved toward the counter. She didn’t shiver, didn’t speak. Just sat down, folding her hands neatly on the counter.

The chef reached for a towel and placed it in front of her. “You’re soaked.”

The woman didn’t touch it.

Instead, her lips parted, and she spoke in a voice that didn’t quite match the stillness of her expression.

“I need something warm.”

The chef nodded. He turned toward the stove, letting the familiar rhythm of cooking settle his nerves. The sound of broth bubbling, of vegetables sizzling, of the knife against the cutting board—normal sounds. Human sounds.

But behind him, the café was too silent.

Not the usual kind of silence.

A waiting silence.

The chef ladled out a steaming bowl of oden, the gentle aroma of dashi, daikon, and fish cakes filling the space. He placed it in front of her. “Here.”

The woman stared at it.

She didn’t move.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Her head tilted slightly. Then, she finally lifted a piece of daikon to her lips. She chewed slowly. Swallowed.

Then, she smiled.

It wasn’t the kind of smile that reached the eyes. It was the kind that unsettled.

“This tastes familiar.”

The chef frowned. “You’ve had it before?”

The woman lifted her gaze. Her wet hair dripped onto the counter.

“You made this for me once.”

The chef stilled.

He had never seen this woman before.

But before he could say anything, she continued, “A long time ago. Do you remember?”

The wind outside howled.

The chef studied her carefully. Her white dress, the bare feet, the water dripping onto the floor that never seemed to stop.

His stomach tightened.

This was not a woman caught in the rain.

This was something else.

The lights flickered.

The woman picked up another piece of food, chewing thoughtfully. “You look different now.”

She wasn’t wrong. He had changed. His face, his voice, his name. Everything.

And yet, she sat here, eating his food like it was a memory she had never let go of.

The chef’s voice was quieter now. “Who are you?”

The woman’s smile widened.

She leaned in slightly, her wet sleeve brushing against the counter.

“You don’t remember me?”

He didn’t answer.

Because somewhere, deep inside—he did.

The smell of damp earth. The weight of silence after a storm. The taste of something unfinished. He knew this feeling.

A forgotten debt. A promise left unfulfilled.

The woman placed her chopsticks down. “It’s alright,” she whispered.

Her gaze held something deeper now. Something almost sad.

“I just wanted to know if you still remembered.”

She stood up.

The chef opened his mouth—to stop her, to ask something, anything. But before he could, she turned toward the door.

The bell didn’t ring when she stepped out.

And when the chef rushed to the entrance—

The alley was empty.

No footprints. No dripping water.

Nothing.

The only sign she had ever been there—

Was the half-empty bowl of oden, still warm on the counter.

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