The next Thursday came with low clouds and a wind that carried the smell of wet asphalt
Kenji stood behind the counter watching the streetlights come on one by one like shy lanterns waking from a nap
He had learned to sense who would walk through his door before they did it was not magic only habit the rhythm of faces that came and went like tides

The bell above the door jingled and the trucker returned same jacket same heavy boots his face tired but somehow softer this time
He nodded at Kenji like they had agreed on something without speaking
Kenji poured tea before he asked he had already prepared extra broth that morning though he didn’t know why until now

The man sat in the same seat halfway down the counter hands folded before him staring at the steam like it might spell something out
Kenji dropped fish cakes daikon tofu into the pot
The set again? he asked quietly
The man nodded Yeah the same that one hits right

Kenji smiled faintly You drove far?
Seattle run and back the man said thirty hours give or take stopped once for gas and a nap
Kenji nodded he could almost hear the hum of the highway inside the man’s voice

They ate in silence for a while only the sound of the rain ticking against the window
When the man finally spoke his voice came low and uneven like a truck engine misfiring You ever see something you can’t forget even if you try?
Kenji said nothing he knew some questions weren’t looking for answers only for space to exist

The man’s hands trembled a little as he lifted the chopsticks
Couple years back snowy night in Utah I was driving east not fast but the road was slick one wrong turn and the trailer slid right into the lane opposite
He paused breathed out There was a small car couldn’t stop in time I saw the lights go up then vanish

The broth bubbled softly between them
Kenji felt the heat rise from the pot touch his face
Did they— he started
The man shook his head A couple husband and wife they said it wasn’t my fault black ice and all that but I know better I saw their faces right before the hit I still do sometimes when it’s quiet

The man leaned back eyes on the ceiling After that I just kept driving never stopped too long anywhere figured if I stayed still the memories would catch up
Kenji poured him more tea and said softly But you stopped here
Yeah the man said Don’t know why maybe the smell maybe the quiet

The clock ticked steady as a heartbeat
Kenji thought of his own ghosts of fire and smoke and the echo of his wife’s voice
He understood what it meant to keep moving just so you wouldn’t remember what stood still

The man finished the last piece of tofu and pushed the bowl forward You make this broth every day same way?
Kenji nodded Same base same patience it changes a little each day depending on who eats it
The man gave a small laugh Didn’t know soup could listen
Kenji smiled Sometimes it does more than people do

They sat in easy quiet until the storm outside began to fade
Kenji cleaned the counter the man helped without being asked handing over napkins stacking bowls like it was the most natural thing
When everything was done the man reached into his pocket pulled out a small brass coin worn and shiny around the edges
Found this on the road years ago he said Keeps me lucky I think
He placed it on the counter You keep it I’ll take some luck from your broth instead

Kenji tried to give it back You’ll need it more than me
But the man shook his head I’ll be fine roads always end somewhere

He stood and looked toward the window where the rain had stopped leaving streaks of light across the glass
Maybe next week I’ll bring you something from the road
Kenji nodded I’ll save a place for you

After the door closed Kenji turned the coin in his hand it was engraved with a faded compass and the words Home is where you stop running
He didn’t know if the man had ever read those words but he understood them completely

The street outside was dark again
Kenji sat by the pot and listened to it breathe the quiet sound of broth and flame whispering like an old memory still alive
He placed the coin beside the register and left it there a small golden moon waiting for someone to return

That night before he locked up he wrote something on a scrap of paper and pinned it near the counter
It said Every road ends with a meal shared in silence

He didn’t know why he wrote it maybe for the trucker maybe for himself maybe for all the people who still carried things too heavy for words
He blew out the lantern by the door but left the small stove burning low as always
The pot shimmered in the dim light like a secret that refused to die

And somewhere miles away on a dark stretch of highway a truck rolled on through the quiet breathi