Staring at the screen of the attendance management system on her PC, Azusa let out a quiet sigh.

One by one, she checked employee ID numbers, cross-referencing vacation requests with logged working hours.
No one was watching her do it, but if there were any mistakes, she would be the one called out by name.

Azusa Onodera had returned to work from maternity leave nearly a year and a half ago.
By now, she should have gotten her rhythm back—
and yet, the feeling of not quite belonging had never gone away.

"Hey, Azusa-san, could you handle the application form for next month's event, too?"

The voice came from the desk beside her.
The one asking was a younger colleague—the kind who always passed things off "for now" rather than doing them herself.

"That's not really general affairs work, is it?"

"Eh? Well... it just helps a lot if you can handle it all together..."

"So, basically, I get extra work because it's helpful, huh?"

Azusa replied calmly.
The younger woman gave a sheepish laugh and returned to her seat with a sing-song "Please~!"

Being treated like a convenient go-to had become routine by now.

It's not like Azusa worked reduced hours because she had a kid.
She stayed late when she could.
And yet, when people said things like "Because you have a child", using it like some kind of get-out-of-jail-free card, it left a bitter taste in her mouth.

"You get to leave early because you're a mom."
"Moms have it easy, huh?"

(Do they have any idea how many nights I've gone to bed praying, "Please be better by morning," because I couldn't even stay home to care for my child properly when they were sick?)

"Japan really isn't kind to parents."

But she said nothing out loud.
Even if she did, no one would really listen.

"Everyone else is putting up with it, so just read the room."
That invisible rule kept her quiet, kept her in check.

The numbers on the screen blurred.
Azusa rubbed at the corners of her eyes, subtly enough not to be noticed.

Thirty minutes left until lunch break.

The internal phone rang.
The department head didn't know how to operate the projector in the meeting room. Again.

She stood up with a sigh.

She'd taught him how to use it many times.
Even wrote a manual.
And still, the department head just chuckled, "It's no good without you, huh?"

(...Is that supposed to be a compliment?)
She kept the mutter to herself.

Her phone vibrated. A message from the daycare.

"Today after naptime, slight fever of 37.5°C. Currently stable."

The moment she finished reading it, her body slackened.

Again...

Still, a part of her hoped, "Please don't let the fever go up."
That hope carried with it a twinge of guilt.

Then, finally—lunch break.

There was the company cafeteria, a convenience store downstairs, a few restaurants nearby.
But none of them sounded even remotely appealing today.

"I just want to change the air I'm breathing."

With that thought, Azusa quietly grabbed her bag.

The automatic doors of the building slid open, and a slightly strong wind brushed her cheek.
The midday sunlight glared off the sidewalk, almost dreamlike in its brightness.

She opened her map app, typed in:
"Set meal, quiet, lunch."

But all that came up were chain restaurants she'd already tried, or popular spots sure to be crowded.

"It's not like I'm looking for anything fancy..."
She muttered and kept scrolling.

The atmosphere in the office had been too heavy.
She didn't want to see anyone's face.
Didn't want to bring restraint into her lunch, too.

Then maybe it's better to just go somewhere completely unfamiliar.

With that in mind, she turned onto a street she'd never taken before.

As she walked, eyes on her phone, the screen suddenly froze.
"Huh?"
She tapped it a few times, but nothing happened.

She closed the app and restarted the phone—
but now strange mosaic-like static appeared.
Like a TV stuck between channels, the map became a blur of noise and distortion.

"No signal...?"

In the corner of the screen, a tiny X marked her reception status.
She was just on the edge of the business district.
How could there be no signal in the middle of the city?

Caught between unease and curiosity, Azusa looked up.

And there it was.

The world had gone strangely quiet.
The sound of cars, of people talking—all of it seemed to vanish.

"...Only one?"

She frowned at the sign.
But her feet moved on their own, carrying her toward the door.

Step by step, she approached.
From beyond the sliding door, a faint aroma of dashi—Japanese soup stock—wafted out.

Familiar, and yet forgotten.

Azusa turned off her phone.

"...Where am I?"

Her whisper was absorbed into the quiet air.

Drawn forward by something she couldn't explain,
she reached for the door.

As she gently slid the door open, a dry chime echoed through the space—
Clang-a-lang... clang-a-lang.
The sound felt as if it had shaken the air itself.

Inside, the room was wider than she expected—and silent.
Warm wooden walls, soft lighting, and a gentle aroma of dashi filled the air.
Not the scent of coffee or Western food, but something deeply, unmistakably Japanese.

There were five counter seats and two tables in the back.
No other customers.
Just a stillness that felt neither awkward nor cold.

"Welcome."

The voice came from the back of the room—low and composed.
Azusa looked up.

A man stood behind the counter.
White streaks in his hair, glasses, and a presence that carried quiet dignity.
Well-groomed, calm, and composed—his eyes met hers without judgment or expectation.

He walked slowly to the entrance, took the OPEN sign, and flipped it over.
On the back, written in brushstroke calligraphy: CLOSED.

Azusa, still unsure what to make of it, took the seat at the far end of the counter.

The man—clearly the master of the shop—stood in front of her, then quietly asked:

"What would you like?"

"Uh... I mean, um—do you have a menu?"

He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his lips lifting just a little.

"I can make most things."

There was something oddly comforting in the way he said it.
Azusa felt her shoulders ease, just a little.

"Um... I'd like Japanese food. Something like... a ryokan-style breakfast.
You know—steamed white rice, miso soup, a grilled horse mackerel...
raw egg, and maybe some seaweed?"

The master gave a short nod.

"Understood.
...Oh, and—I haven't eaten anything yet myself, so I'll be having the same."

For some reason, that last part made her feel warm.
The idea of eating together—just that—brought her a quiet kind of relief.

The master turned and headed into the kitchen.
Azusa leaned her elbows on the counter, closing her eyes for a moment, wrapped in the slow, surreal flow of time in this space.

A soft miso aroma drifted from the kitchen.
The smell alone felt like it was already healing something inside her.

From the other side of the counter, she could hear the master working—
moving with quiet purpose.
Each gesture slow, precise, almost like a performance with set choreography.

Her eyes wandered toward the handwritten sign hanging at the edge of the counter:
"Only One Guest."

(What does that mean, anyway?)

There were five seats. Two tables.
No sign of anyone else coming in.
The master, too, acted as if this was perfectly normal.

(Would he turn others away? Why only one... and why "limited"?)

The questions floated through her mind,
but somehow, she didn't feel like pursuing them further.
In this space, it felt more natural to just go along with the flow.

And before she knew it, breakfast had arrived.

Placed before her on a wooden tray, the breakfast looked humble—
and yet, it seemed to shine.

Freshly steamed white rice.
A perfectly grilled horse mackerel.
A bowl of miso soup, still steaming.
Small side dishes: simmered kiriboshi daikon, crisp sheets of roasted seaweed, bright yellow takuan pickles, and thin cucumber slices.

Though Azusa had asked for a raw egg,
the master had instead prepared a soft, fluffy tamagoyaki—rolled omelet, golden and slightly sweet.

There was nothing flashy about it.
And yet, the care in every detail made her want to sit up straighter.

"Please, take your time," the master said,
placing an identical tray before himself and quietly taking the seat beside her.

"Itadakimasu," Azusa said aloud—
a phrase she hadn't spoken in a long time.

She picked up her chopsticks and took a sip of miso soup.

"Ahh... that hits the spot..."

The broth was just right—gentle, balanced, and warming from the inside out.
Silken tofu, chopped green onions, and seaweed floated inside.

She took another sip, then a bite of rice.

"...It's been a while.
Since I had a proper meal like this."

She hadn't meant to say it aloud—
but the words slipped out without warning.

The master gave no reply.
He simply ate his rice in silence.
But the quiet wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, it was comforting.

"Once, when I was in middle school, my family went on a hot spring trip to Noto.
It was the only time we ever went.
I remember fighting with my younger brother the whole time..."

She paused to flake off a piece of the mackerel with her chopsticks.

"But then the breakfast they served at the ryokan... it was incredible.
Each little dish felt like someone had made it just for us.
That alone was enough to put me in a good mood."

She let out a small laugh.

"I think I've been chasing that feeling ever since.
I've tried recreating it at home, but someone's always sick, or the kids are crying...
Somehow, I haven't had anything like this in years."

The master set down his chopsticks and said quietly,

"Eating properly... is a kind of luxury, isn't it?"

"...It really is."

Azusa nodded instinctively.
Just that one line was enough.
She felt understood.

"When you have kids, you start telling yourself it's okay to be sloppy—
that it can't be helped.
But deep down, there's still a part of me that wants moments like this.
And then I feel guilty for wanting them.
Even though, honestly...
I want real food.
I want to enjoy it slowly.
And yeah, sometimes... I just want to be alone."

The master replied with a single line.

"That's perfectly fine."

That was all.
But it landed with quiet strength.

Azusa took another bite of rice,
the saltiness of the mackerel blending and spreading across her tongue.

In that taste, she felt another small memory awaken—
one that had been lying dormant.

This wasn't the same meal from that ryokan years ago.
But just like that morning, it made her feel... alive.

As she continued eating,
she could feel the tension slowly unraveling from her shoulders.

The grilled fish.
The soft tamagoyaki.
The steaming miso soup.

Each one carried the taste of care and intention.

The master said little as he finished his own meal.
But his quiet presence made it easier for Azusa to speak.

"...The other day, a coworker said something to me."

She paused, setting her chopsticks down.

"They said, 'You're lucky—moms get to go home early.'
That was it.
Just that one comment, and I felt so angry.
But I just smiled and let it go.
Because what's the point in reacting to every little thing?"

The master said nothing—only listened.

"I chose to have children, right?
Everyone's got it hard, right?
It's supposed to be give and take,
but all I ever feel is keep quiet and endure.
I guess... I'm angry. At the world."

As soon as she said it, she surprised even herself.
She never used words like "angry."

The master waited a moment, then spoke softly.

"What is it... that you're so angry at?"

It sounded less like a question, and more like a thought aloud.
But somehow, the words struck deep in her chest.

"...I don't know.
Other people?
My company?
Society?
Maybe all of it.

But in the end...
maybe I'm angry at myself.
Because I keep thinking I should be able to do more.
I keep pushing myself."

Each word she let out seemed to loosen something inside her.

She wasn't confessing so much as simply... releasing.

The master looked like he might have smiled, just a little.
Not in approval or agreement—
but simply in quiet presence.

"...Having moments like this makes me think... maybe I can keep going."

"I'm glad to hear that," the master said,
his voice as calm and steady as ever.

Azusa brought the last bite of rice to her mouth,
then gently set her chopsticks down.

"Thank you for the meal."

She didn't say it to anyone in particular.
It just came out—quiet and natural.

The master, without a word, gave a small nod and poured warm tea into a ceramic cup.
Beyond the steam, the dishes from her meal still sat quietly—each one carrying its own gentle warmth.

She picked up a piece of kiriboshi daikon from the small dish.
It was lightly sweet, soaked with dashi, and tender—
as if it had been made the night before and given time to rest.

The pickles—takuan and sliced cucumber—
crunched pleasantly between her teeth, their saltiness clean and mild.
"Pickles are usually a side note," she thought,
"but in a meal like this, they take center stage."

The tamagoyaki was fluffy and delicate, its flavor soft and full of umami.
It felt like it might fall apart if she held it too long,
and when she brought it to her mouth, it gently melted, leaving behind a kind, soothing taste.

...Breakfast is such a gentle kind of meal, Azusa thought.

She wrapped her hands around the tea cup and let out a small breath.
The tension that had clung to her back seemed to drift away.

She stood, bowed deeply, and said,

"Thank you—truly."

The master simply replied,
"Take care."

And with that, their exchange came to a quiet end.

She slid open the door, and the midday air touched her skin.
Maybe it was the food, or the master's words—
but it felt just a bit more pleasant than usual.

The air outside, which she hadn't breathed in for hours, seemed unusually clear and direct.

She pulled out her phone.
The signal had returned.
The map loaded without a hitch.

"...Okay. I think I can push through this afternoon."

She murmured to herself and began to walk.
Her steps felt lighter than before.

A few days later.

Azusa was at her desk, organizing documents by the window.
Tasks that might have irritated her before didn't bother her now, for some reason.

"Onodera-san, thank you again for helping with that thing last week.
It really saved me."

A coworker said it with a smile.
Azusa just gave a small nod and turned back to her screen.

On her way to the convenience store during lunch break, her phone buzzed.
A message from the daycare: "No health issues today."

"...Thanks," she whispered to her phone,
then blinked at herself—surprised by the words.

Azusa suddenly thought back to that day.

The shop.
That breakfast.
The master's voice.

It had all felt like a dream—
but inside her bag, she still had the small receipt.

Maybe I'll try walking that way again.

She set off, turning the same corner, walking the same path.
But the shop was nowhere to be found.

"...I guess it really was a once-in-a-lifetime thing."

Just then, a man walked past her from the opposite direction.
He had white-streaked hair, glasses, a casual jacket and jeans, and a kind, gentle presence.

(Have I seen him before...? He's not the master, but... something about him feels familiar.)

She almost stopped—
but then kept walking.

"...Probably just someone else," she murmured to herself.

And with that, Azusa moved forward.
It felt like the afternoon ahead of her would pass just a little more smoothly.