The snow was gone by the next night. Rain again. Portland rain. Soft and steady. Streetlights on wet pavement. A kind of tired comfort. Kenji unlocked the door as always and lit the small sign. The shop felt lived in. Not just by him. By everyone who had sat there and tried not to fall apart.

He checked the counter. The coin. The flowers. Miles’s new postcard from Colorado. Daniel’s photo. The little chopstick stand holding it up. The note he left for Emily. All of it in one small corner of wood and light. A little altar for the people still here and the people who were not.

He heated the broth. He tasted it. It had that deep round flavor that only comes when food has memory. He nodded to himself. Good.

He waited.

Around eleven the door opened fast and Emily came in. Not slow like last time. Not tired. Wired. Tight. Coiled. Her jaw was set. Her hands were clenched around something in her fist.

Kenji looked at her face and knew.

Sit, he said.

She dropped into her usual seat like her bones didn’t know how to hold her up anymore.

Without asking he started her bowl. Daikon. Egg. Tofu. Chikuwa. A little extra broth. He didn’t rush. She watched his hands like watching him could keep her from shaking.

Her voice when it finally came was flat. We lost a girl tonight.

Kenji stopped moving for half a second. Then kept ladling.

She could not have been more than seventeen, Emily said. Maybe sixteen. She came in blue. We got her pulse back. We thought we had her. We thought she was coming back. Her chest started moving again. For a second she opened her eyes. For a second she looked at me like she was scared and then she just slipped. Gone. Just gone.

Kenji set the bowl in front of her. Emily didn’t touch it. Her hands were still clenched. She stared at them like they belonged to some stranger.

I told her mom that we tried our best, she said. That line again. I said it like a robot. I watched this woman scream and I said the words like I was reading them off a card. And do you know what she did. She thanked me. She said thank you. Thank you for being with her. Thank you for holding her hand.

She let out a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

Then Emily opened her palm and set something on the counter.

It was a tiny charm. A cheap plastic cross. Pale blue. The kind of thing you get from a fair or a machine.

Her mom gave me this, Emily whispered. She said her daughter always held it when she was scared. She wanted me to have it. Me. Like I did something holy. I didn’t. I just watched her die.

Kenji looked at the charm. He reached out. Not to touch it. To place his hand flat on the counter near it. Close enough for her to feel the choice. Far enough not to take it from her unless she let him.

Emily took a breath. And another. Her eyes were bright but she was not crying. She looked like someone who had cried past empty a long time ago.

Eat, he said.

I’m not hungry.

Eat, he said again.

She picked up the chopsticks and forced herself to take one bite. Then another. Then she slowed. Then she finally exhaled.

The warmth started to come back into her face.

You always know when to shut up, you know that, she said.

Yes, Kenji said.

She snorted.

They were quiet a while. Rain tapped the window. The broth sent up a slow curl of steam. The shop light felt soft and low. Almost like candlelight.

After a few minutes she said, My boss told me to take a few days. Said I should rest. Said I am not good to anyone if I burn out. She gave a bitter smile. I told her I’m fine. You think I’m fine.

No, Kenji said.

Emily let out a breath. Yeah. Me neither.

He poured her tea. She watched the steam rise from the cup.

I don’t know how to carry this, she said. There’s too much. It keeps stacking. Every patient. Every story. Every sound. I hear monitors in my sleep now. I wake up and I’m already tired.

Kenji nodded. He didn’t answer. Not yet.

Emily turned her head and looked at the corner of the counter where Daniel’s photo sat. She stared at it for a long time. When she spoke again, her voice was softer.

When my brother died, she said, I thought it was my fault for being asleep. When that girl died tonight, I thought it was my fault for being awake. You get what I’m saying.

Yes, Kenji said.

I can’t win, she whispered.

Kenji did not rush to disagree. He let the thought sit in the room with them. He had learned that some words have to lie on the table and breathe awhile before they’re ready to move.

Finally he said, You are using the wrong math.

Emily frowned. What does that mean.

You think you are God, he said. You think every life in your hands is yours to save. If you save them you are good. If you lose them you are guilty.

Emily stared at him. That’s not what I—

He lifted one hand. She stopped.

Yes, he said. It is. You may not say it but you live like it.

Emily leaned back. Her throat worked. Her jaw tightened again.

That is heavy math, Kenji said. Too heavy. It will break you. It already started.

Emily let out one slow breath through her nose. She didn’t talk.

Kenji continued, You are not God. You are a person. A person who walks into rooms nobody wants to walk into. A person who stays there anyway.

He nodded toward her bowl.

You give warmth, he said. That is all you can ever give. You give warmth in the last minute. You give warmth in the middle. You give warmth after it is already too late. That is your work.

Emily swallowed. Her lip trembled just once.

You think warmth is small, he said. It is not small. It is the only thing people ask for in the end.

She looked down at the plastic charm.

The mom said thank you, she whispered.

Yes.

She wasn’t thanking me for saving her, Emily said. She was thanking me for staying.

Yes, Kenji said.

Emily sat with that.

For a while neither of them spoke.

Then she said, I don’t want to be a hero. I just want to not feel like I’m dying every day.

Kenji said, Then don’t try to be a hero. Just sit. Just eat. Just sleep. Come here. Talk to me. Talk to Daniel. Talk to nobody. It all counts.

Emily let out a shaky laugh. You’re really going to let me talk to a photo on your counter.

Yes.

That made her smile.

She reached over and with careful fingers moved Daniel’s photo half an inch closer to her seat. Then she did something else. She placed the little plastic cross beside it.

For him, she said. And for her. The girl. I don’t even know her name yet. I’ll know when I go back in and read the chart. She swallowed. But I want her to sit here too. Just for a while.

Kenji bowed his head. He did not touch the charm. He understood that part was not his.

Emily rubbed her hands over her face and breathed out. Okay, she said. Okay. I can keep going one more day.

Good, Kenji said.

Do you say that to everyone, Emily asked.

No, he said. Only to the ones who look like they are about to quit being alive.

Emily let out a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a gasp. Jesus. You really don’t miss.

He shrugged. Age helps.

She ate a little more. She drank more tea. Her shoulders lowered.

After a while she said, I saw your note.

He looked at her. My note.

Under his picture. Under Daniel. You wrote You are allowed to rest.

Kenji gave a small nod. Yes.

Emily tapped the counter with two fingers. I cried in the doorway like an idiot when I saw that, she said. Before I even sat down. So. Thanks for that.

You’re welcome, Kenji said.

You really believe that, she asked. That I’m allowed.

Yes, he answered. I believe it for you until you can believe it for yourself.

That was when she broke.

Not loud. Not ugly. Not movie crying. Just a steady shaking breath and then tears that slid down and dripped onto her wrist. She didn’t cover her face. She didn’t apologize. She just let it happen.

Kenji did not move to comfort her. He stayed close. He stayed present. He let her cry into the warm air and the broth steam and the soft hum of the refrigerator. He knew sometimes you do not hold a person while they fall apart. You hold the room around them.

When she was done she wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand and gave a small laugh. That was gross.

No, Kenji said. That was human.

She sniffed. Shut up.

Okay, Kenji said.

She laughed again.

Then she said, I’m off tomorrow night. I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t remember how to have a night with nothing.

Kenji said, You can come here.

You going to feed me again.

Yes.

You going to charge me.

Yes.

She laughed. Good.

She stood up slowly. Picked up her bag. Then she did something new. She reached over the counter and squeezed his hand, just once, fast.

Thank you, she said.

You’re welcome.

She pulled on her jacket. She looked at Daniel. She looked at the little cross. She looked at Miles’s card on the wall. All the lives in the room, layered and warm.

Then Emily said, I’m not okay. But I’m still here.

Kenji nodded. That is enough.

She nodded back. Yeah. For now.

She pushed open the door and walked out into the rain. The bell above the door gave one small ring and then went quiet.

Kenji stayed where he was.

He looked at the little shrine on the counter. The photo. The charm. The coin. The flowers. The lives.

He whispered, For now is enough.

He turned down the flame under the broth. Not off. Never off. Just low.

The shop hummed around him, gentle and alive. Outside the rain went on, steady and patient, washing the city but not erasing anything.