The Man in the Forgotten Suit

It was almost closing time when the knock came.

Two knocks. Sharp. Precise.

The chef glanced up.

The café had no sign. No advertisements. No reason for anyone to find it unless they were meant to.

Yet someone was at the door.

Slowly, he wiped his hands on a cloth.

The knock came again. The same. Exactly the same.

He exhaled. “Come in.”

The door creaked open.

A man stepped inside.

Tall. Thin. Dressed in a suit that didn’t quite belong to this era. His coat was crisp, his hair neatly parted.

But something was… off.

His skin was too smooth. His movements too precise.

The café had seen many things.

The chef had seen many things.

But this—this was different.

The man smiled. Polite. Measured.

“Good evening,” he said.

His voice was perfectly neutral.

The chef inclined his head.

The man took a seat at the counter.

“I would like a meal,” he said.

The chef nodded. “What kind?”

The man’s smile widened.

“That depends,” he said softly. “What would you serve someone who does not exist?”

The air stilled.

The chef’s fingers curled slightly against the counter.

Outside, the wind didn’t move.

The city had noise, lights, life—but here, in this café, there was only silence.

The chef met his gaze.

Then, after a long moment, he turned to the stove.

Something simple.

Something to remind the dead that they were once alive.

He prepared a bowl of hot soba.

Thin buckwheat noodles, a light, fragrant broth. Topped with green onions, a poached egg, and a thin slice of fried tofu.

He placed it in front of the man.

The man’s smile faltered.

Just slightly.

He lifted his chopsticks.

Took a bite.

And the café shifted.

The chef saw it—the flicker in the air, the slight ripple in the man’s form.

Like something unraveling.

The man stilled.

Slowly, he set the chopsticks down.

He studied his hands.

Then, softly—

“…I had forgotten.”

His voice was different now. Less perfect. More human.

The chef said nothing.

The man exhaled.

“…It’s a good meal,” he murmured.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, folded piece of paper.

Carefully, he placed it on the counter.

Then, he stood.

The chef didn’t stop him.

As the door opened, the man hesitated.

Then—he was gone.

The café hummed around the absence.

The chef picked up the paper.

Unfolded it.

A newspaper clipping.

Yellowed with age.

An obituary.

A name. A face. A date.

Someone who had died eighty years ago.

The ink was smudged, the edges worn.

But across the bottom, a single sentence had been scribbled.

Thank you for remembering me.

The chef traced the faded text with his thumb, staring at the face in the photograph. A young man, smiling slightly, wearing the same neatly pressed suit.

A gust of wind rattled the door.

He looked up.

The seat at the counter was empty. But the bowl was still there—completely clean.

Not a drop of broth left.

The chef exhaled slowly.

Then, he took the newspaper clipping and carefully placed it in a small wooden box under the counter—a box filled with other letters, notes, and forgotten memories.

He closed it gently.

Tomorrow, another night would come.

And another lost soul would knock.

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