It was just past 2 AM when she arrived.
A woman in a gray coat, hood pulled low, eyes hidden beneath the weight of the night. She moved quietly, as if afraid of waking something unseen.
The café was nearly empty. Just the chef, the hum of the refrigerator, and the faint scent of miso in the air.
She hesitated at the door.
Then, carefully, she stepped inside.
The chef noticed the way she carried herself.
Like she wasn’t sure if she should exist at all.
She took a seat at the counter, fingers curling around the edge of the wood.
“…Something light,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
The chef nodded.
He turned to the stove, preparing a simple ochazuke—steamed rice, hot green tea poured over it, pickled plums, and a sprinkle of seaweed. A dish for the weary. For those who needed to remember who they were.
When he placed it in front of her, she didn’t move.
Her hands tightened.
“…It smells familiar,” she murmured.
The chef said nothing.
Then, after a long pause—
“I don’t remember my name.”
The words were calm. Too calm.
The chef didn’t react.
People came here with all kinds of stories. Some came with hauntings, others with holes where their pasts should have been.
But this was different.
She wasn’t saying she had forgotten.
She was saying she had lost it.
Like something had taken it away.
Or worse—like she had given it up.
The woman picked up her spoon.
Slowly, she took a bite.
The café shifted.
The chef watched.
Her fingers trembled slightly.
Then—
A sharp inhale.
She closed her eyes, expression twisting in something almost painful.
And suddenly, she was speaking—not to him, not to anyone, just speaking.
“…There was a time I knew who I was.”
A pause.
“I had a name. A life. A home.”
Her breath hitched.
“But I was tired. So tired.”
Her hands clenched around the bowl.
“So I gave it away.”
The café hummed around her.
The chef understood now.
There were things in the world that took names. That fed on them.
And if you were desperate enough—you might offer yours willingly.
But a name wasn’t just letters.
It was a thread. A tether. A proof of existence.
Without it, you could slip away.
Fade into something nameless.
She took another bite.
The silence stretched.
Then, a breath.
“I remember something,” she whispered.
The chef watched as her shoulders straightened.
Not much. Just a little.
Like something in her was reforming.
“…I think my mother used to make this for me.”
She swallowed hard.
A pause.
Then, almost in disbelief—
“…I think my name was Yuki.”
The chef said nothing.
He simply nodded.
The woman took a final bite.
She set the spoon down, exhaling slowly.
For the first time since she had entered, she felt real.
Not just a shadow passing through the night.
A person.
She reached into her pocket. Pulled out a small, old charm.
A wooden name tag. Scratched. Worn. But still there.
She placed it on the counter.
“I think I’ll take this back now,” she murmured.
The chef nodded.
As she left, she walked steadier.
The café door swung shut behind her.
And in the silence, the charm on the counter vanished.
As if it had never been lost at all.
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