The Woman Who Devoured Darkness

The café was unusually quiet tonight. Even the wind outside had settled, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

The chef was cleaning the counter when the door creaked open.

A woman stepped inside.

She was tall, draped in a flowing black kimono, her hair cascading down her back like ink bleeding into the darkness.

She moved with an unsettling grace, her feet barely making a sound against the wooden floor.

The chef had seen all kinds of visitors—human, inhuman, and those caught in between.

But something about her presence felt… wrong.

She took a seat at the counter, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

Her face was pale, her lips bloodless, her eyes deep and endless—pools of ink that refused to reflect light.

The chef placed a glass of water in front of her.

She did not touch it.

After a long silence, she spoke.

“I am hungry.”

Her voice was a whisper, yet it filled the entire café.

The chef nodded. “What would you like?”

She tilted her head slightly, as if she hadn’t expected the question.

Then, she smiled.

It was the wrong kind of smile.

A smile that did not belong on a face so empty.

“I want to eat something warm,” she murmured. “Something that will remind me what warmth feels like.”

The chef turned to his kitchen.

Something warm.

Something that could bring back memories.

He decided on nikuman—steamed pork buns.

Soft, fluffy dough, wrapped around rich, fragrant filling. Something simple. Something comforting.

As the buns steamed, the café felt heavier, as if the walls themselves were pressing inward.

The woman remained motionless.

Only her eyes moved—watching, waiting.

The chef placed the steaming buns in front of her.

She lifted one delicately.

Took a bite.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—

Her fingers trembled.

Her pupils dilated.

She breathed in sharply, as if suddenly remembering how to.

The warmth of the food spread through her, and for a fraction of a second—just a fraction—she looked human.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she did not blink them away.

“I see,” she whispered.

She placed the half-eaten bun down and reached into the sleeve of her kimono, pulling out something small and delicate.

A paper talisman.

She placed it on the counter.

“For you,” she said.

The chef did not touch it.

“What is it?” he asked.

She smiled again. This time, it was almost real.

“A charm of protection.”

Her voice softened.

“You feed lost souls, but not all of them leave grateful.”

The café flickered—just for a moment.

The chef understood.

She stood, her shadow stretching unnaturally long beneath her.

At the door, she paused.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said—

“You should use it soon.”

And then she was gone.

The chef stared at the talisman.

The ink was fresh. Wet. As if it had just been written.

Carefully, he picked it up.

Outside, the wind howled.

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