The rain started just before midnight.
Not the kind that poured. Not a storm. Just a steady, whispering drizzle that blurred the neon lights outside.
The chef stood behind the counter, watching the city through the frosted glass. The world outside looked like a half-finished watercolor painting—soft, bleeding at the edges.
The café was empty. For now.
Then, the door slid open.
She stepped inside.
A woman in a wedding kimono.
Her robes were white, embroidered with delicate silver cranes. Her veil covered her face. She moved slowly, each step precise—like she was walking down an aisle that no longer existed.
The chef didn’t speak. He had seen many things. Heard many stories.
Some guests needed to order before they could talk.
She reached the counter and sat down. Her movements were too careful, too deliberate—like someone trying to remember how to be alive.
Then, softly—
“Something warm, please.”
Her voice was distant. Like she wasn’t speaking just to him.
The chef nodded.
He turned toward the stove. His hands moved without thinking—reaching for the broth, the miso, the tofu. A simple dish. A comfort food.
Outside, the rain continued.
He placed the steaming bowl of miso soup in front of her.
The woman finally lifted her hands.
She pulled back her veil.
The chef stilled.
Her face was beautiful. But there was something wrong.
Her skin was pale—too pale. Her lips, colorless.
And her eyes—
They were still waiting for something.
She picked up the spoon. Slowly, she took a sip.
A long pause.
Then—
“…It’s warm,” she whispered.
The chef nodded. “It should be.”
She smiled, but it was a sad, hollow thing.
“I haven’t felt warm in a long time.”
Her fingers trembled slightly.
The chef watched.
He had learned that food wasn’t just food. It was a memory. A tether. A bridge between the living and the lost.
And this woman—
She had been lost for a long, long time.
She took another sip.
Then, after a moment—
“I was supposed to get married.”
Her voice was quiet.
The chef said nothing.
She exhaled softly.
“He promised he would wait for me at the shrine.”
She placed the spoon down.
“But I never made it.”
A drop of water rolled down her cheek.
Not a tear.
The chef looked at her kimono again.
The hem was damp.
Not with rain.
With river water.
The woman smiled faintly.
“I was told I should let go.”
She reached for the soup again.
“But I wanted to be sure.”
She lifted the bowl, drinking the last of it.
When she set it down, her hands were steady.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
She turned to the chef, her expression lighter.
“Thank you.”
The chef nodded.
She stood up, smoothing her kimono.
Then, she walked toward the door—the same way she had come.
This time, her steps were faster.
Certain.
She reached the entrance. Paused.
And then—
She smiled.
A true smile.
Then, she was gone.
Outside, a faint breeze stirred.
Somewhere, far away, a wedding bell finally rang.
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