The hospital called twice before noon.

Emily did not answer.

Her phone sat face down on her kitchen counter next to an empty coffee cup and a pile of mail she had no plan to open. The blinds were still closed. Her shoes were still by the door. She hadn’t even taken off her scrubs from the night before. She just sat on the floor with her back against the cabinet and stared at nothing, feeling the kind of tired that wasn’t sleep, just numb.

She knew they wanted her to cover. Someone always called when someone else cracked. Hey can you come in hey can you float hey can you do triage for four hours we’re short it’ll just be four hours we promise. Four always meant twelve. Twelve always meant you walk home shaking.

Not today.

She stood up slow, picked up the phone, turned it off, and put it in a drawer. She didn’t like how quiet it was after that. She didn’t like how loud it was either when it rang. Lately everything felt wrong no matter how she held it.

Her apartment was clean but empty. A couch. A cheap table. A single mug in the sink. Little signs of a life that had been narrowed down to work and exhaustion. The only personal thing that felt alive in the room was a hoodie hanging on the back of a chair. Her brother’s old hoodie. Gray. Faded. Too big. She took it and put it on, even though it still smelled faintly like him and that always hurt.

Her chest felt tight the way it had started feeling lately when she was alone. A heaviness right under the ribs. Not panic exactly. Just pressure. Like being underwater.

She stood in her kitchen for a full minute and told herself to breathe.

Then she grabbed her keys and went outside.

It was midafternoon. Portland was wet in the way Portland is always wet this time of year. The sky was low and pale. Street puddles held pieces of light. Her car sat where she had left it last night, but she didn’t get in. She just started walking.

At first she didn’t plan to go to Night Oden. She told herself she was just walking to clear her head. Just moving her body so it wouldn’t turn to stone. But the city had a way of always bending toward that corner. And her feet knew the way without asking.

By the time she reached the shop her hair was damp and her scrubs were cold against her legs. The sign in the window hummed. Warm yellow light. She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold.

She opened the door.

Kenji looked up from behind the counter. He didn’t look surprised. He never looked surprised. He just nodded once and said, You are off today.

Yes, she said.

Good.

That was all. No why aren’t you at work. No are you okay. No what happened. Just good.

She felt her throat loosen a little.

She sat in her usual seat. The seat that now felt like hers whether she admitted that or not. She glanced at the counter shrine out of habit. Daniel’s picture was there. The little cheap blue cross was there. A new coin she didn’t recognize sat beside Miles’s brass one. A postcard she hadn’t seen yet was tacked to the wall. The air smelled like broth and daikon and maybe ginger and maybe something sweet.

She let her shoulders drop.

Rough night, Kenji said.

Rough ten years, Emily said.

Kenji nodded like that was a fair answer.

He started her bowl. No menu. No questions. He had already learned what calmed her and what made her jaw unclench. Tofu. Daikon. Egg. A little konnyaku. A little extra broth. He moved slow. He always moved slow.

She watched his hands.

After a moment she said, I didn’t go in.

Good.

You’re not going to tell me I should have.

No.

You’re not going to tell me I’m letting people down.

No.

Why not.

Because you are not a machine, Kenji said. Because your body is saying stop and you listened. This is health.

Emily snorted. Health. Cute word.

True word, Kenji said.

She let out a weak laugh. You’re going to get me in trouble with my own guilt.

Your guilt already knows the way here, he said. It can sit down too.

That almost made her smile.

He set the bowl in front of her and poured her tea. She held the cup in both hands but didn’t drink yet. She just watched the surface of the broth.

She said quietly, I had a dream last night. I was in the trauma bay. Same room as always. Same monitors. Same lights. But nobody else was there. No patients. No doctors. Just me. Still working. Charting. Cleaning. Restocking. Calling labs that didn’t answer. Doing compressions on a bed with no one in it. For hours. Nothing changed. Nothing stopped. And I couldn’t leave.

Kenji listened, eyes soft.

I woke up shaking, she said. I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was going to pass out. I sat on the floor in the kitchen and thought, If this is how it’s going to feel forever, I can’t do this. I can’t. Not like this.

Kenji said nothing.

Emily let out a slow breath. But I’m here. So that’s something.

Yes, Kenji said. That is something.

She finally took a bite. Closed her eyes. Let the warmth hit. When she opened them again, some of the tight glassy look had left her face.

She said, You know what it is. I’m angry.

Kenji tilted his head. At who.

Everyone, she said. At the patients who come in three times in one week with the same overdose and refuse to talk to social work. At the system that lets people disappear unless they’re bleeding in a hallway. At my boss who tells me to get some rest and then calls me the next day asking if I can cover nights. At the hospital chaplain who tells families God has a plan and then walks out and never cleans up afterward. At my mother for acting like I should be grateful to be so “useful to society.” At myself for thinking I could fix anything. At my brother for leaving me here with this.

Her voice shook a little on the last part.

She set down her chopsticks. I don’t like feeling angry, she said. Anger makes me feel like I’m failing at being kind.

Kenji shook his head. Anger is not the opposite of kindness, he said. The opposite of kindness is numb.

Emily blinked. Say that again.

Anger means you still care, he said. Numb means you gave up.

She stared at him. Then she let out a small huff of breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. So you’re telling me I’m healthy because I want to punch the world.

Yes.

That’s messed up, she said.

Yes, Kenji said.

For a second she actually smiled.

They ate in quiet for a while. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel like pressure. Just breathing.

After a few sips of tea, Emily leaned forward, elbows on the counter. Okay, old man, she said. Tell me something true about you. I’ve told you like forty things I’ve never said out loud. You owe me one.

Kenji lifted his eyes.

She smiled. Don’t dodge. That’s cheating.

He wiped the ladle on a clean cloth. He rested his hands flat on the counter. For a few seconds, he did not say anything at all.

Then he said, My wife died in a fire. After that, I did not cook for almost two years.

Emily went still. Her expression softened. She didn’t interrupt.

He went on, voice even. I burned my hands trying to reach her. It was a restaurant kitchen. Grease fire. Fast. Loud. Smoke thick. Too thick. I could not get her out. Other people pulled me back. After that night, every time I heard a pan hiss I smelled that smoke. Every time I saw steam I thought it was fire. I could not go into any kitchen without shaking.

Emily’s eyes filled but she did not speak.

Kenji tapped the counter softly with one finger. I thought I had lost all purpose, he said. I did not sleep. I did not speak. I did not eat unless someone made me. I sat on the floor and waited for the day to end. Each day. For months.

He nodded once, like confirming it to himself.

Then one winter I made broth, he said. Just broth. Nothing else. Water. Soy. Dashi. Ginger. I did not plan to eat it. I just wanted to hear something that was not sirens. I let it simmer. Slowly. Hours. When I opened the lid, the steam touched my face and for the first time in a long time it did not feel like fire. It felt like her hand.

Emily covered her mouth with her palm.

So I kept cooking, he said. Not to feed other people at first. To keep her here. Every night the broth talks. I listen. That is all I do.

It was quiet in the shop for a long moment.

Finally Emily lowered her hand. She said softly, Do you still hear her?

Yes, Kenji said.

What does she say?

Be patient, Kenji said. And cut the daikon thicker.

Emily let out a wet laugh and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. God. That hurts. But in a good way.

Kenji nodded. Most honest things hurt a little.

She breathed in. Breathed out. Then she said, Can I ask you something else.

Yes.

Why do you keep my brother’s picture here.

Kenji looked at Daniel’s photo. Because you asked me to, he said. Because he should not be alone. Because some people leave fast and deserve to stay anyway.

Emily swallowed. Her voice dropped. He would have liked you.

I like him already, Kenji said.

That did it. She cried then. Not the hard choking kind from before. More like something inside her untying by hand. She wiped her face and shook her head. This is annoying, she said. I didn’t come here to cry.

You came here to not be alone while you cry, Kenji said.

She laughed through the mess of it. You are way too good at this.

Practice, he said.

She breathed. Ate again. Finished almost all of the bowl. Drank the rest of the tea.

After a while she said, I think I’m going to call in again tomorrow.

Good, Kenji said.

She shook her head. They’re going to be pissed.

Yes.

What if they fire me.

Then you will sleep, he said. Then you will remember you are more than work. Then you will come here and eat.

She let out a breath. And then what.

Then, he said, we will see.

She stared at him. Do you ever worry about the future.

Every day, he said.

Does it scare you.

Yes.

Then how are you so calm.

He looked at the pot. The broth moved in slow circles.

Because the future is not here yet, he said. The stove is.

She laughed. That’s such a you answer.

He nodded. Yes.

She stood then. Pulled her hoodie tighter around her. Looked steadier than when she walked in. Still tired. Still hurt. But steadier.

Before she left, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. She set it next to Daniel’s photo. Kenji didn’t look at it yet.

What is this, he asked.

A number, she said. Crisis line. For nurses. We don’t like to use it. We don’t like to admit we need it. But I called it once. It kept me here. If a kid named Logan ever comes in and looks like he’s not going to make it through the week, you give it to him, okay.

Kenji nodded. I will.

Promise me, she said.

I promise.

She closed her eyes for a second, like that cost her something. Then she opened them and smiled, soft and tired but real.

Thank you for letting me not go to work today, she said.

Thank you for staying alive today, Kenji said.

Her eyes warmed. See you tomorrow, she said.

See you tomorrow.

She left. The bell rang. The door closed. The street sounds slipped back in like low rain.

Kenji stood alone in the warm light of the shop.

He looked at the counter. The picture. The cross. The coins. The postcard from Miles. The folded number from Emily. All of it sitting together like parts of one body.

He whispered to the room, Stay.

The broth kept simmering. Slow. Patient. Certain.

Outside, in a city that did not stop for anyone, there was one small place where people were allowed to pause without breaking.