The rain stopped two days before Thursday and left the air thin and bright, the kind of cold that makes metal ring. Kenji opened the door early, let the smell of broth drift out so the morning would remember him. He set the coin upright beside the register like a guard and placed a small vase by the window—three white chrysanthemums from the market, clean and simple. He didn’t know if Miles would come but the flowers waited anyway.

When the sun dropped the world turned gray again and headlights drew long lines across the window. The bell rang once and Miles walked in carrying a handful of roadside wildflowers, yellow and uneven but alive.
Forgot to buy real ones, he said, brushing off dust.
Kenji nodded. They are better. They remember the road.
Miles grinned a little and laid them beside the vase, his hands clumsy but careful.

He sat, shoulders looser than before.
You mailed the card? Kenji asked.
Yeah, Miles said, staring at the steam. Didn’t think I would, but I did. Dropped it in a box at a rest stop in Idaho. Felt strange, like leaving a weight in someone else’s hands.
Kenji poured tea. Sometimes we have to share the weight to walk straight.

They ate in slow silence. The daikon was perfect that night, soaked clear through. Miles watched the pot move as if it had breath.
You ever miss home? he asked.
Every day, Kenji said, but the missing changes shape. It becomes flavor.
Miles nodded. Guess the road does the same thing. It stops being a distance and starts being noise you can’t live without.

He told Kenji about the places between places—desert gas stations where cats slept under the pumps, frozen diners with jukeboxes that only played old love songs, a lake in Nevada that reflected the moon so clearly it looked like another world. Kenji listened without interrupting, his hands steady over the pot, as if the stories were ingredients and he had to stir gently to keep them from burning.

When Miles paused, Kenji asked, You ever drive with someone else?
Miles shook his head. I tried once. Partner didn’t last. Too much silence spooks most people. They think quiet means trouble coming.
Kenji smiled faintly. Or healing.

Miles looked up. Maybe. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.

The shop door opened and a gust of cold air rolled through. Two college kids peeked in, saw no tables, only the counter, and left laughing. The sound lingered a second and faded.
Kenji added broth to Miles’s bowl. People rush past warmth because it looks slow, he said.
Miles chuckled. That’s good. You should put that on the wall.
Maybe next to the coin, Kenji said.

The flowers leaned toward the light. Steam wrapped around them, softening the edges of their yellow petals until they looked like memory more than matter.

Miles said, My sister wrote back.
Kenji looked up. Already?
She emailed. Said she’s glad I’m still out there, wants me to visit when I can. He paused. I haven’t answered yet. Don’t know what to say after all this time.
Kenji set down the ladle. Start with I’m still alive. The rest can wait.

Miles stared at his hands. That simple, huh?
The hardest things usually are.

They finished eating, and Kenji cleaned the counter. Miles reached into his jacket again, this time pulling out a small photo, bent at the corners—him and a woman, both smiling under a blue sky.
The couple from the crash, he said quietly. News photo from the paper. I keep it to remind myself they were real people, not ghosts.
He laid it beside the coin. I don’t know why I brought it here.

Kenji studied the picture without touching it. Maybe because ghosts deserve light too.

He took one of the chrysanthemums from the vase and placed it on the photo.
We’ll let it stay tonight, he said. The steam will carry the prayer.

Miles’s eyes shone a little, not from tears exactly, more like someone seeing distance clearly for the first time.
You ever think the shop listens? he asked.
Every night, Kenji said. It keeps what people leave behind and turns it into warmth.

Outside, a siren wailed somewhere far, then faded into the steady hum of the city.
Kenji handed Miles another cup of tea. You’ll drive again tomorrow?
Yeah. Oregon to Texas. Two days if I’m lucky.
Then come back when you’re tired, Kenji said. The broth doesn’t forget.

Miles smiled. Neither do you, old man.
Kenji laughed, the sound low and brief. That’s my curse.

They packed up the flowers together. Kenji tied them with the same twine from the postcard and gave half to Miles.
For the road, he said. Put them on the dashboard. When they dry, they’ll still smell like here.

Miles took them, nodded, and stepped into the cold. The door closed softly. The sound of his engine faded down the street until only the ticking of the sign remained.

Kenji looked around the empty shop. The coin, the photo, the single flower in the vase. Each piece of someone else’s story resting quietly in his world. He picked up the postcard Miles had forgotten weeks ago—the one showing the gas station under the sky—and pinned it above the counter beside his own note.

He read the words he had written: Every road ends with a meal shared in silence.
Then he added underneath, in small careful letters, And begins again when someone remembers.

The broth murmured softly, steady as breath. Outside, the streetlights blinked in rhythm, a quiet applause for another night that had chosen not to break.