The Whispering Guest

Tonight, the wind was restless.

It whistled through the alleyways, slipping through the cracks of Eclipse Café like a wandering spirit. The chef had heard that kind of wind before—the kind that carried voices.

And sure enough, the bell chimed.

A woman stepped inside.

Or at least, she looked like one.

She was dressed in a deep red kimono, patterned with fading cherry blossoms. Her hair was sleek, straight, and too dark, too perfect. And when she moved, there was something… off.

Something in the way her sleeves didn’t quite sway.

Something in the way her shadow didn’t quite follow.

She glided toward the counter, sitting with a slow, practiced grace.

The chef kept his hands steady. He had learned long ago—when the wrong kind of guest entered, you didn’t flinch.

She folded her hands in front of her. Her nails were flawless. Sharp.

“I would like a meal,” she said.

Her voice was smooth as silk. But beneath it—

A whisper.

Not an echo. Not a trick of the wind.

An actual whisper.

The chef could hear it—a second voice, softer, layered beneath her own.

His grip on the counter tightened.

“What kind of meal?” he asked.

The woman’s lips curled into a smile.

“The kind that makes you forget.”

The whisper followed.

Forget. Forget. Forget.

The lights flickered.

The chef inhaled slowly. Then, he turned toward the stove.

Knife against the cutting board. The low simmer of broth. The steady rhythm of his hands.

He prepared unadon.

Grilled eel, glazed with a thick, dark sauce, resting over warm rice. A dish meant for those who carried too much.

The woman watched him work. Her gaze never wavered.

When the meal was ready, he placed it before her.

She picked up her chopsticks, lifting a piece of eel.

But before she ate, she asked—"Will it work?"

The chef’s fingers stilled.

“…What do you want to forget?”

She finally took a bite.

Chewed. Swallowed.

Then, softly—

“The sound of my own voice.”

The whispering grew louder.

Louder.

The lights flickered again. The wind pushed against the windows.

The chef watched as something in the woman’s expression wavered.

“I tried everything,” she murmured.

The whisper trembled beneath her words.

“I stopped speaking. I stayed silent. I refused to let my voice out.”

The shadows in the café stretched.

“But still…” She exhaled. “It whispers.”

The whispering didn’t stop.

The chef stared at her carefully.

This woman—this thing—was haunted.

Not by a spirit.

By herself.

The whispering wasn’t from someone else.

It was hers.

A voice she had tried to erase, but could never silence.

He wiped his hands on a towel.

“There’s no dish that can take that away,” he said.

The woman’s fingers twitched. Her chopsticks hovered over the bowl.

Then—she laughed.

Soft. Hollow.

“I thought so.”

The whispering grew deafening.

And then—

The café went dark.

The wind roared through the alley. The shadows folded into themselves. The chef remained still, waiting—listening.

And when the lights returned—

She was gone.

No footprints. No sign she had ever been there.

Only the bowl of unadon, untouched.

And the faintest trace of a whisper—

Still lingering in the air.

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