The café was empty. The last visitor had left hours ago, and outside, Tokyo was sinking into its deepest hours—the fragile space between night and dawn.
The chef wiped down the counter, the rhythmic motion filling the silence.
Then—
Knock. Knock.
A soft, hesitant sound.
He looked up.
No one knocked here. Not unless they were meant to.
He set the cloth aside and walked toward the door.
Knock. Knock.
The same pattern. Two knocks. A pause. Two more.
Something about the rhythm made his fingers curl slightly.
He exhaled and pulled the door open.
The alley was empty.
The neon lights from the distant street cast long shadows, flickering against the damp pavement.
The chef scanned the alley once more. No one.
Just as he was about to step back inside—
“Excuse me.”
The voice was soft.
He looked down.
A child stood in the doorway.
She was barefoot, dressed in a thin yukata too light for the cold night air.
Her hair was neatly cut in a straight bob, framing her round face. Her wide eyes were dark—too dark.
The chef frowned. “Are you lost?”
She shook her head.
“I’m hungry.”
The café only welcomed those who truly needed to be here.
And yet… something about this child felt wrong.
Still, he stepped aside.
“Come in.”
She padded in, her small feet making no sound against the wooden floor.
She climbed onto a stool at the counter, her legs dangling.
The chef studied her. Her yukata was too clean. Her hands too still. Her expression too calm.
“What would you like to eat?” he asked.
She tilted her head slightly.
“Something warm,” she said. “Something my mother used to make.”
Her voice was quiet, but it carried through the café like an echo from far away.
The chef turned to his kitchen.
Something warm. Something comforting.
He decided on oden.
A simmering pot of daikon, fish cakes, tofu, and eggs, soaking in a deep, golden broth. A dish meant to fill the empty spaces in the soul.
The broth’s aroma curled through the air. But the café felt colder.
The chef glanced at the child.
She hadn’t moved.
Her eyes were locked on him—too unblinking. Too knowing.
He ladled the oden into a bowl and set it in front of her.
She picked up the chopsticks, lifted a piece of daikon, and took a slow bite.
The café shifted.
The air grew dense.
The lights flickered.
And then—
A single tear slid down her cheek.
“…It tastes the same,” she whispered.
The chef’s chest tightened.
She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small, faded ribbon.
She placed it on the counter.
“My mother used to tie my hair with this,” she said softly. “Before the fire.”
The chef froze.
The wind outside howled.
He looked down at the ribbon.
The fabric was burned at the edges. The faint scent of smoke still clung to it.
Slowly, he looked up—
The stool was empty.
The bowl was clean.
Only the ribbon remained.
A shiver crawled down his spine.
He turned to the door.
It was wide open.
But there were no footprints outside. Not even a single trace that someone had been there at all.
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