Another Night, another soul.
The café was quiet, wrapped in the heavy stillness of the late night. The chef stood behind the counter, slicing green onions with practiced ease.
The wind outside shifted. Not a strong gust—just enough to make the door rattle.
And then, it opened.
The man who stepped inside was dressed in an old-fashioned suit, the fabric slightly worn at the edges. His tie was neatly knotted, his shoes polished. He looked like someone who had stepped out of a different time.
But it wasn’t his clothes that unsettled the chef.
It was the way his presence felt stretched—like something pulling at the edges of reality.
The man took a seat at the counter, folding his hands neatly in front of him.
“I was told you serve anyone,” he said.
The chef nodded. “If they’re hungry.”
The man smiled faintly.
“Then I’ll have something for the cold.”
The chef studied him for a moment before turning to the kitchen.
He decided on kitsune udon—hot broth, thick wheat noodles, and deep-fried tofu. A dish that carried warmth, even in the loneliest hours.
As the broth simmered, the man spoke.
“I talk to the dead,” he said casually.
The chef didn’t react.
He had served stranger guests.
“They come to me,” the man continued. “Not all of them. Just the ones who can’t move on.”
The chef stirred the broth. “And what do they say?”
The man chuckled.
“They always ask about the same things. Family. Regrets. Love.”
He let out a slow breath.
“But the ones who’ve been dead the longest… they only ask one thing.”
The chef placed the steaming bowl in front of him. “And what’s that?”
The man picked up his chopsticks.
“They ask if anyone still remembers them.”
The café felt smaller.
The man lifted a piece of tofu to his lips, chewing slowly.
“This,” he murmured, “tastes like something I had… a long time ago.”
He smiled.
The chef said nothing.
The man set his chopsticks down and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, yellowed photograph.
He placed it gently on the counter.
The chef glanced at it.
The photo was old, edges curling with time. It showed a younger version of the man, standing beside a woman in a kimono.
“My wife,” the man said softly. “She loved kitsune udon.”
His fingers brushed the photo.
“I’ve been looking for her.”
The wind outside howled.
The chef’s fingers tightened around the counter.
He looked at the man—really looked at him.
And then, he finally understood.
“…How long have you been searching?”
The man smiled, but this time, it was a sad thing.
“A very long time.”
The lights flickered.
The air thinned.
And then—
The stool was empty.
The photo remained.
The chef stared at it for a long time before carefully tucking it into a wooden box behind the counter—a box filled with other forgotten memories.
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