Lily came back that same night.

Kenji was not surprised.

He was cleaning bowls and restocking skewers when the bell over the door rang fast, not gentle like usual, but urgent, like fear had pushed it open. He looked up and saw her. Same jacket. Same tote. Hair a little messier, braid partly out. Eyes wide.

She didn’t sit this time.

She walked straight to the counter, leaned in a little, and said, almost whispering, Is it still here.

Yes, Kenji said.

He didn’t ask what she meant. He just turned and pointed to the shrine.

Her book was still there. Exactly where he’d placed it. Between the postcard and Daniel’s photo. Soft light from the front window was touching the torn spine like it belonged.

Lily let out a shaky breath that wasn’t quite relief. More like she had been holding something sharp in her chest and now it moved, but did not leave.

Okay, she said. Okay. Good.

She didn’t reach for it.

Instead she sat.

Same seat as before. Shoulders closer to the ground now. Face less guarded and more raw.

Kenji poured her tea.

She wrapped her hands around the cup but did not drink. Her voice was low. Do you close soon.

Not for you, he said.

Something in her face loosened at that.

She said nothing for a while. Neither did he.

The city hummed outside. The sign buzzed in its low way. The broth exhaled slow steam.

Finally Lily said, Can I ask you something. And if I ask it, can you not say a nice old man answer and instead tell me like for real.

Yes, Kenji said.

She took a breath through her nose, then another, then stared at her tea like she was talking to it, not him.

Am I in danger, she asked.

Kenji did not answer right away.

He never answered fear too fast. Fast answers sometimes feel like lies.

He looked at her hands first. The way she held the cup. The small tremor in her right thumb. The way she kept her body turned, just slightly, toward the door. The way her tote stayed hooked around her ankle, like she was making sure nobody could snatch it.

Then he met her eyes.

From who, he asked.

Her jaw tightened. From my old life, she said.

He nodded once. Tell me.

She swallowed. It took her a few seconds to start.

Okay, she said. So. Back home. Before I left. My mom’s boyfriend. He’s not like. She waved a hand, searching for the word. He’s not dramatic, you know. He’s not screaming and throwing stuff around. He’s quiet. He’s a pressure. He’s the kind of person who tells you what you are until you believe him.

Kenji nodded. He knew that type.

He does this thing, she said. He makes everything sound like your fault. If you’re tired, it’s because you’re lazy. If you’re sad, it’s because you want attention. If you’re angry, it’s because you’re selfish. If you’re scared, it’s because you’re weak. And then you start to think maybe you are all those things. Because fighting takes energy and you get tired.

Her eyes flicked down. You get so tired.

Kenji said quietly, Yes.

She rubbed her thumb against the rim of the cup. The last few months I was there, she said, he started telling my mom that I made him feel unsafe. Me. That I was unstable. That I was trying to ruin her happiness on purpose. That I was jealous. That I was toxic. She laughed, a hard sound. He loves that word. Toxic. He says it like it’s science.

Kenji’s hands were still. His eyes were calm.

He told her I needed to go, Lily said. That I was old enough to figure it out, and that I was going to sink her if she didn’t let me. He said I turned the air heavy.

Her throat moved. She swallowed.

Then one day, she said, the trash bag was on the porch. Clothes stuffed in. Shoes tied together like I was going to camp. And the door was locked. She didn’t open it. She just stood behind it. I could hear her crying but she didn’t open the door.

Kenji did not speak.

Lily gave a tiny smile, but it wasn’t a happy one. That’s when I knew, she said. That’s the moment. When the crying is on your side of the door, not hers. That’s how you know something ended and nobody said it out loud.

Kenji nodded once. I understand.

Yeah, she whispered.

The steam from the tea rose between them. She stared through it.

Then she said, I thought that was it. I thought, okay, fine. I’ll leave. I’ll go. I’ll disappear. I’ll start over and prove that I can survive without asking anyone for anything and then maybe I won’t be a problem anymore. I told myself it was my choice even though it wasn’t. That felt better.

Kenji said, People pretend exile is freedom sometimes. It helps them walk.

Lily almost laughed. Yeah. Exactly that.

She rubbed her forehead. So I got on a bus. Came up here. Stayed with a friend for a while. Started working at the bookstore. Started thinking maybe this could be a normal life. I’d walk to work. I’d eat cheap noodles. I’d read old paperbacks in the back aisle when nobody was looking. I’d fall asleep on a couch and call it temporary like that made it noble.

Then the store shut down, she said. And I thought, okay. Fine. I can pivot. I can keep going.

She swallowed again. Her jaw clenched.

And then, she said, he found me.

Kenji did not move, but his attention sharpened.

Lily’s voice dropped to almost nothing. I don’t even know how he found me. I never told him where I went. I didn’t tell him what city. I didn’t post. I didn’t call. I didn’t talk to anyone we both knew. Nothing.

She stared at the counter, not blinking. But yesterday my phone buzzed. Number I don’t know. And it was him. Hey kiddo. That’s how he talks. Hey kiddo. That fake soft. You know the tone.

Kenji nodded. He knew it.

He said, Lily continued in a flat voice, You’ve had your little freedom adventure. It’s time to come home and stop causing problems. We can talk like adults if you’re calm. We’ll figure this out. But you’re out of chances.

Her mouth twisted. He said my mom’s tired, and it’s not fair. He said I’m embarrassing her. He said people are talking. He said I made a mess and I have to come back and clean it.

Kenji stayed very still.

Then she pulled something from her tote.

A cracked phone.

She slid it across the counter to Kenji. Messages still open. The most recent one read:

You don’t survive out there without us. Don’t make me come get you.

Kenji read it.

He looked up at her.

Lily’s voice trembled now, just at the edges. He can’t actually come here, right, she said. He’s just talking. He’s not like. She swallowed. He’s not a hitman. He’s just a man who thinks he’s in charge of everything. He’s just a man who thinks I’m his to fix.

Kenji did not rush.

He said, Do you want to go back.

Her face changed.

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t panic.

It was very pure fear.

No, she said.

Her voice shook. No. I can’t. If I go back, I don’t get back out. And I don’t just mean physically. I mean I won’t belong to myself anymore. I won’t even know what I think. I won’t trust the inside of my own head. I’ll become what he says I am just because it’s easier. And then that’s it. I’ll never climb out.

Her hands were shaking now. She put them flat on the counter to hide it.

She whispered, I can’t go back.

Kenji held her gaze. Good, he said.

Her breath left her all at once, like he had untied a rope that had been pulled tight around her chest.

Okay, she said. Okay. Okay.

He poured her tea again. Her hands were still shaking, so he set the cup down near her but did not ask her to pick it up.

This is what we will do, he said, voice calm.

Her eyes flicked up fast.

One, you will eat, he said.

Her brow lifted. I don’t feel hungry.

Eat anyway, he said. Fear lies to the stomach.

Her mouth twitched. … okay.

Two, he said, you will not answer him.

Her throat worked. I wasn’t going to.

Good.

Three, he said, you will not sleep outside tonight.

Her eyes went wet around the edges. I wasn’t going to.

Where, he asked.

Sofa, she said, voice small.

Safe sofa, he asked.

Safer than before, she said. Not perfect. But better than before.

He nodded.

Four, he said, if he shows up here, I will tell him to leave. You will not. I will.

Her eyes widened. You can’t—

Yes, he said.

He said it in a way that ended the question.

Something in her posture loosened. The shaking slowed.

She whispered, Why would you do that.

Kenji said simply, Because I am here.

Her lips parted. For a second she couldn’t answer.

Then she put one hand over her face and let out a single, cracked, honest sound.

It wasn’t crying.

It was something closer to relief.

After a moment she dropped her hand again and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket, like she was embarrassed by what had slipped out. Sorry, she muttered.

Do not apologize, he said.

She laughed weakly. I keep saying sorry to people who aren’t hurting me. It’s a problem.

You will stop, he said.

You say that like it’s easy, she said.

It is not easy, he said. But it is allowed.

Her mouth pulled into something like a smile.

He stood and began to build her bowl without asking. She watched. He moved steady. Tofu. Daikon. Egg. The good kind of fish cake. Extra broth this time. He made sure she saw every step.

When he set it down she took one bite. Then another. Then another. Halfway through, her shoulders started to come down from around her ears. Her breathing slowed.

She said, Voice softer now, I didn’t know where else to go.

Kenji said, You do now.

Her face cracked. Yeah, she whispered. I do.

They sat with that.

The city outside carried on. Somebody laughed loudly from the sidewalk and then kept walking. A car rolled past with bass too heavy for the hour. The sign buzzed. The broth murmured like quiet weather.

Lily finished almost all of it this time.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said, in a voice that was steadier than before, Thank you.

You are safe here, he said again.

She swallowed. You keep saying that.

Yes.

You think saying it makes it true, she asked.

No, he said. I think saying it tells the room what its job is.

She blinked at him. Then let out a breath that almost became a laugh. You’re weird.

Yes, he said.

She stood. Picked up her phone. Slid it back into her tote. She didn’t look at the messages again.

Before she left, she walked to the shrine and placed two fingers on the spine of her book. She didn’t take it. She just touched it, like you touch someone’s arm to let them know you’re still here.

Then she leaned closer and whispered, so quiet that Kenji barely heard it, I’m not going back.

She straightened.

Kenji said, Good.

She nodded. Pulled her jacket closed. You’ll be here tomorrow, right.

Yes.

Same time.

Any time.

She smiled, small but true. Then she said, Okay. I’ll try tomorrow.

He nodded. I’ll have the broth ready.

She opened the door. Cold night air slid in. She turned, looked at him one last time, and said, He doesn’t get to tell me who I am.

No, Kenji said.

She nodded again, like sealing it. Then she stepped out into the dark.

The bell rang. The door closed.

Kenji stood in the warm light of the shop for a long moment, not moving.

Then he turned to the shrine.

He adjusted Lily’s book so it leaned steady, like a shoulder waiting.

He looked at Daniel. At the blue cross. At the trucker’s laughing wife. At the napkin. At the coins. At the keychain.

At all the little proofs of survival.

Then he whispered, to the room, to the broth, to the night outside the window:

Keep her safe.

The pot answered with a soft, steady simmer, like a heartbeat that refused to stop.