The Man Who Knocked Twice

Tonight, the café was silent.

No wind. No footsteps. Not even the hum of the neon sign outside.

The chef stood behind the counter, wiping a plate clean, when he heard it.

Knock.

A single, sharp sound against the café door.

He looked up.

The entrance was still closed. No shadow stood beyond the frosted glass. No figure waited in the alley.

And yet—

Knock.

Again. The exact same sound.

The chef placed the plate down.

Something felt wrong.

The bell never rang. Only footsteps should have reached the door. But this?

This was something else.

He moved slowly, wiping his hands on his apron. He stepped around the counter, walking toward the door.

He hesitated.

Then—he slid it open.

The alley was empty.

No one was there.

No footsteps. No retreating figure. Just the quiet hum of Tokyo’s distant traffic.

The chef exhaled through his nose.

It wasn’t the first time something unseen had tried to enter the café.

And it wouldn’t be the last.

He turned, ready to close the door—

And then he saw it.

A man was sitting at the counter.

The chef’s pulse stopped.

He had been alone just seconds ago.

And yet—

The man was there.

Still. Silent. Waiting.

His suit was black. Clean, pressed—but too perfect. His hands rested lightly on the counter. Too pale. His face was calm, but—

His eyes were missing.

Not hollow. Not bleeding.

Just gone.

The chef’s grip tightened on the door.

Slowly, carefully, he stepped back behind the counter.

The man did not move.

The café felt different now. The air was too thick. Too heavy.

Finally, the man spoke.

“I was invited,” he said.

His voice was flat. Toneless. Like someone who had forgotten how to speak.

The chef did not answer.

The man tilted his head, almost expectantly.

Then, softly—

“I’ve been looking for my seat.”

The chef frowned. “Your seat?”

The man raised a single, pale hand.

And pointed.

To the last stool at the counter.

The chef’s stomach dropped.

That stool—

It had been empty for years.

No one ever sat there. No one ever tried.

The chef had never questioned why.

But now—

The man smiled.

“I knocked,” he said.

The lights dimmed. The walls felt closer.

The chef didn’t breathe.

The man’s fingers tapped against the counter.

Knock.

Knock.

The same rhythm. The same sound.

Slow. Final.

And then, his voice—just above a whisper.

“May I take my seat now?”

The chef’s chest tightened.

His fingers twitched toward the knife resting by the cutting board—an old habit, a useless instinct.

Because you can’t cut something that doesn’t belong in this world.

The man was waiting.

He had been waiting for a long, long time.

The chef exhaled.

“What would you like to eat?”

The man’s smile widened.

“The same meal I last had here.”

The chef didn’t move.

Something shifted in the air.

Last had here.

A long, long time ago.

His grip on the counter tightened.

There were no records of this man. No memory. No presence.

And yet—

The café remembered him.

The lights above flickered. The walls seemed to close in, just slightly.

The chef didn’t look away.

Instead, he turned toward the stove.

Slow. Careful.

If the café remembered him, then so did he.

A dish meant for the restless.

He prepared ochazuke—rice soaked in warm tea, topped with flakes of salted fish, a gentle meal meant to ease the soul.

The scent of roasted rice filled the air. The steam curled into the dim light.

The chef placed the bowl in front of the man.

For the first time, the stranger’s expression shifted.

A shadow of something almost human.

His fingers curled around the chopsticks.

He lifted a bite to his mouth—

And paused.

The silence in the café grew unbearable.

Then—

A slow exhale.

“…It still tastes the same,” the man murmured.

His tone was almost wistful.

He took another bite. And another. Slowly, methodically, as if each grain of rice was something he had longed for.

With every bite, the air lightened.

The shadows receded.

The chef watched.

This man—this thing—had been waiting.

For this meal. For this moment. For something that anchored him to what was once real.

The ochazuke was nearly gone.

The man placed the chopsticks down.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then, his lips parted.

“I can hear it now,” he whispered.

The chef frowned.

“Hear what?”

The man tilted his head.

“The bell.”

The chef stiffened.

The café bell—the one that never rang unless someone entered.

It was ringing.

Softly. Distantly.

The man exhaled.

And then—

He smiled.

A true smile.

His form began to blur.

Fading—slowly, peacefully.

The chef didn’t move.

He simply watched.

And then—

The man was gone.

No trace. No shadow.

Only the empty stool.

Only the faint warmth of ochazuke still lingering in the air.

And the final echo of a knock—

Knock.

Knock.

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