The next evening came with steady rain again. The kind that makes every streetlight look like it’s breathing. Kenji opened the shop as always. The pot was already simmering, the broth soft and gold. He stood behind the counter, waiting for the quiet to settle into its rhythm. The sign flickered outside, and a faint reflection of steam moved across the window like a ghost stretching awake.

He didn’t expect Emily that night. She’d said she was taking a day off. But he had made extra daikon anyway. Some habits were not meant to break.

Around nine, the bell over the door chimed. It wasn’t Emily. It was a boy—maybe twenty. Thin. Wet from the rain. A guitar case strapped to his back. His clothes hung on him like they were borrowed from time. He looked around, cautious but curious.

Kenji nodded. Welcome.

The boy hesitated. You open?

Always.

He sat slowly, unstrapping the guitar. The case looked old, stickers half peeled away. Smells good, he said. Like something I forgot.

Kenji smiled. Then maybe you came to remember.

The boy laughed quietly. That’s deep for a cook.

Kenji said nothing, just began filling a bowl. Daikon, egg, fish cake. The broth rippled. The boy watched the motion of the ladle like it was some kind of spell.

When the bowl came, he leaned over it, eyes half closing. Man, that’s heaven. He took a slow bite, exhaled through his nose. You make this yourself?

Every night, Kenji said. You play guitar?

Sometimes, the boy said, chewing. Name’s Logan.

Kenji nodded. I’m Kenji.

Logan smiled, shy but open. You got a good name for a guy who makes food like this.

They ate quietly for a while. The sound of rain filled the spaces between them. Logan looked at the wall, at the photos, postcards, the little stand with the charm and Daniel’s picture. He didn’t ask. He just kept looking.

Kenji noticed. They’re friends, he said.

Dead?

Some. Some not. Still friends.

Logan nodded like he understood. That’s cool. My mom used to light candles for people who weren’t dead yet. Said it helped keep them warm.

Kenji smiled. She sounds kind.

She was, Logan said softly. When she remembered to be.

Kenji didn’t push. He let the boy’s silence find its shape. He could tell this was one of those conversations that needed time, the kind that started with soup and ended somewhere you didn’t expect.

After a while Logan said, You ever feel like everything you’re doing is just waiting for something to stop hurting?

Kenji looked at the pot. Every night.

Logan nodded. Yeah. Thought so. He pushed the bowl away, not finished but full enough. I’m on the road. Left L.A. a month ago. Busked in Eugene, got robbed, ended up here. Thought I’d head to Seattle next but I don’t know. Doesn’t feel right.

Kenji poured him tea. Sometimes the road isn’t wrong. Just too long.

Logan smiled, tired. That sounds like a song.

Then write it.

He laughed. You always talk like that? Like fortune cookies that mean something?

Maybe the fortune is the meal, Kenji said.

Logan snorted softly, but it wasn’t mocking. He reached into his case, pulled out a beat-up guitar. The strings looked tired. He tuned it slowly, each note soft and sad. When he started to play, it wasn’t perfect. But it was real. The melody was like steam, rising and disappearing before it could finish.

Kenji listened. The sound filled the small shop, mixed with the scent of broth and rain. It made the room feel larger, like it reached past the walls.

When Logan finished, he looked embarrassed. Sorry, it’s nothing. Just something I play when I don’t know what else to do.

Kenji said, Then play it again.

Logan smiled small. You paying me in soup?

Soup lasts longer than applause.

That made the boy laugh, and he played again. This time the notes were steadier. A rhythm built between them—the song, the ladle, the rain outside. It was the kind of music that didn’t need to be remembered to matter.

When the last note faded, Logan leaned the guitar back against the counter. Guess I needed that.

Kenji nodded. So did the room.

Logan looked at him. You ever get lonely, man?

Kenji thought about that. I think I used to. Now I just stay open.

Open?

For whoever comes in.

Logan smiled faintly. That’s brave.

Kenji said, No. Just patient.

The boy looked down at his hands, rubbed his fingertips together. You know, my dad used to say that patience is just another word for waiting to die. Guess that’s why I started playing. I wanted to do something that moved.

Kenji ladled more broth into the pot. Patience isn’t waiting to die. It’s learning how to live long enough to feel something again.

Logan looked up. His eyes were red, not from tears, just from the weight of too much road. You should write songs, he said.

Kenji smiled. I do. In soup.

The boy laughed again. Man, you’re weird.

And yet you came back for seconds.

He did. Finished the bowl this time, quiet and slow. When he was done, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill. All I got.

Kenji waved it off. Next time.

There’s a next time?

If you’re still breathing, yes.

Logan nodded, slipped the bill back into his pocket. He picked up the guitar. You sure?

Kenji said, I don’t feed ghosts.

Logan smiled, something real behind it this time. Guess I’ll come back then.

Bring a song.

I will.

He stood, zipped his jacket, and looked around the room one more time. Feels like this place remembers things for people.

Kenji nodded. That’s what warmth does.

Logan said, You think anyone remembers me somewhere?

Yes, Kenji said. Even if they don’t know they do.

The boy nodded, quiet for a moment, then stepped out into the rain. The sound of his guitar case tapping against his leg followed him down the street.

Kenji watched through the window until the shape disappeared. The rain softened again. He turned to the counter, looked at the photo, the coin, the charm, the new empty seat. He thought of all the stories that passed through the shop and how each one left a trace—like steam on glass that fades but never really vanishes.

He poured himself tea, lifted it to his lips, and whispered into the cup, Every song needs a place to rest.

The pot simmered steady, breathing slow. Outside, the city exhaled, the rain falling like applause for people still trying to make it through the night.