(Translated from Japanese)

  10:00 a.m.

  At the call center of an automobile insurance company, the phones rang nonstop, as if echoing the dreary, rainy start to the week.

  "Yes, the tow truck has been arranged. We're now coordinating with the repair shop... Yes, I see. I'm truly glad you weren't hurt..."

  Mizuki Yazawa, 42 years old.

  She had been working here as a temp for just six months.

  Before she knew it, she was being asked to train newcomers—yet her hourly pay hadn't gone up, and no one ever said thank you.

  With the receiver wedged between her ear and shoulder, she glanced sideways at her monitor.

  The screen showed "Current cases: 4" next to her name.

  Meanwhile, the younger senior colleague at the same desk had "Current cases: 1."

  "Again...?"

  She swallowed her sigh.

  Swallowing things like that—she'd grown used to it.

  The moment she hung up, a voice came from behind her.

  "Yazawa-san? For that last one—you should ask for the policy number first, yeah? Just follow the script, okay?"

  (Now? You're telling me that now? I already confirmed it earlier.)

  "Got it. I'll be more careful."

  She replied automatically. That kind of response had been drilled into her.

  But all she ever got were complaints and apologies.

  Meanwhile, her useless boss just wandered around behind her all day.

  (I wonder who's in charge of his mental care.)

  Her head felt heavy. Her shoulders ached.

  Still, she tried to keep her voice bright, her expression soft.

  "Hello, this is Yazawa."

  While taking another call, she glanced at her phone with her left hand.

  Hanging from it was a faded charm, embroidered in gold thread.

  It was a traffic safety charm her mother had once given her.

  She used to hang it from her school bag when she was little.

  Back then, she believed that someday, she'd grow up to be a freer kind of adult.

  Now that she was an adult—

  What she'd become was nothing like the future she'd imagined.

  "...I really want omelette rice."

  The words slipped out of her mouth.

  She couldn't stop working, but in a quiet corner of her mind, an image of a steaming omelette rice began to form.

  A fluffy egg blanket, rich demi-glace sauce.

  On the side: broccoli and potatoes.

  It was the special dish her mother would make for her birthday.

  Not the usual egg sandwich from FamilyMart, or the whipped cream melon bread from Lawson.

  "Just for today... maybe I'll treat myself to a proper lunch."

  To keep herself from falling apart that afternoon, she needed something to hold on to.

  And maybe—just maybe—a good meal could be that something.

  The lunch break chime rang, and Mizuki stood up without hesitation.

  She had no destination in mind.

  Yet her feet, as if on their own, began leading her elsewhere.

  She crossed the pedestrian bridge and slipped into a backstreet she didn't usually take.

  A narrow path wound between old apartment buildings.

  Weeds brushed against her ankles, and the sunlight filtering through felt softer somehow.

  "Is there even a restaurant... in a place like this?"

  She muttered, uncertain, despite being the one who had chosen this direction.

  And then—

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it.

  An old building stood just ahead, like a remnant from another time.

  A wooden structure with white-framed windows and a rusted iron sign.

  A nostalgic scent drifted on the breeze, tickling her nose.

  Next to the entrance, a small handwritten sign hung from a hook.

  OPEN

  Beneath it, in much smaller letters:

  ONLY ONE GUEST

  "...What?"

  She stopped in her tracks.

  The building looked as if time itself had paused around it.

  There was no shop name to be found.

  The letters on the sign were too faded to read.

  Still, she felt herself drawn in—

  One step, then another, as if pulled by something unseen.

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  When she placed her hand on the door, a strange, familiar air floated out to greet her.

  Something brushed the edge of her memory, gently.

  Hesitating, she slowly turned the knob.

  —Creeeak...

  The wooden door groaned, and a small bell chimed softly.

  Inside was a calm, quiet space—far more serene than its outer appearance suggested.

  Wooden floors. A low ceiling.

  A large, old pendulum clock ticked steadily: tick... tock... tick... tock.

  There were five counter seats and two small tables.

  All the furniture looked well-used, each bearing traces of people who had once sat there.

  Behind the counter sat a man, perhaps in his late sixties, reading a newspaper.

  His hair was streaked with white.

  As Mizuki stood frozen at the entrance, the man slowly looked up.

  "Welcome."

  His voice was calm and gentle.

  He rose without hurry, walked to the entrance, and flipped the OPEN sign around.

  Now it read: CLOSED.

  After a short pause, he spoke again.

  "What can I get for you?"

  Mizuki hesitated at his question.

  She looked around for a menu, but couldn't find one anywhere.

  "Um... do you have a menu?"

  The man shook his head gently.

  "Ah—no menu, I'm afraid.

  But I can make most things, within reason."

  He said it so casually, as if this were perfectly normal.

  Mizuki nearly laughed. She had never seen a place like this before.

  And yet, the quiet, gentle atmosphere began to ease the tension in her shoulders.

  "Then... could you make omelette rice?"

  As she asked, her heart gave a small, unexpected flutter.

  It felt oddly thrilling—to request something she genuinely wanted, in her own words.

  The man nodded.

  After a slight pause, Mizuki added softly,

  "If possible... I'd like the egg fluffy and soft.

  With demi-glace sauce.

  And... if you could add broccoli and potatoes on the side, that would be wonderful..."

  As she spoke, she realized she might be getting a bit too specific.

  But that was the taste she remembered.

  A special dish her mother used to make for her birthday.

  On tiring days, or when things felt too heavy,

  that image of omelette rice would always come to mind.

  Without changing his expression, the man gave a quiet nod.

  "Understood."

  With just that, he turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Mizuki took a seat at the counter.

  The cushion was soft, and the backrest fit her perfectly—

  as if it had been made just for her.

  What a strange place, she thought.

  But it didn't feel wrong.

  In fact, maybe this was the kind of place she'd been hoping for all along—

  She just hadn't known it.

  Soft clinking sounds came from the kitchen.

  The light clatter of dishes. The gentle shuffle of a frying pan.

  Yet everything about it was so quiet—so calm.

  Mizuki rested her elbows on the counter and slowly scanned the room.

  A low ceiling with exposed wooden beams.

  A shelf lined with old paperback novels, cookbooks, a small radio—

  and a picture frame about the size of her palm.

  She looked at it absentmindedly—

  and then stopped.

  A small river. A log bridge.

  A young girl, maybe in early elementary school, standing on it.

  The photo was in black and white, but the girl's clothes and hairstyle carried the unmistakable air of the Showa era.

  "...Huh?"

  Hanging from the girl's school backpack was something Mizuki couldn't ignore—

  a dark-colored tassel, embroidered in gold thread.

  A tiny charm for traffic safety. She could barely make out the words.

  She glanced down at the charm on her own phone.

  The same faded embroidery.

  The one her mother had given her years ago.

  "It looks... the same. No—it is the same..."

  It couldn't be.

  And yet—it was that similar.

  The girl in the photo had her face turned slightly away, making it hard to read her expression.

  But there was something familiar in her presence.

  "No way..."

  Just then, a rich aroma floated in from the kitchen and gently pulled her back to the present.

  The scent of browned butter, sweet sautéed onions, and something warm and savory.

  Her chest loosened slightly.

  Mizuki slid her phone back into her pocket and straightened her posture.

  Lunch was almost ready.

  "Thanks for waiting."

  The man's voice came softly, as he placed a white plate in front of her.

  A fluffy, golden omelette blanketed the rice like a warm quilt.

  Glossy demi-glace sauce was poured carefully over the top,

  and on the side—broccoli and potatoes, skin-on, just as she'd imagined.

  "...Wow."

  The words escaped her lips before she realized.

  A meal made properly. A meal made just for her.

  Something deep inside her stirred at the realization.

  She gently sliced into the omelette with a knife.

  The soft interior spilled out, warm and rich.

  She scooped up a bite with her fork and brought it to her lips.

  Soft. Warm.

  The scent of butter spread gently in her mouth, followed by the sweetness of the chicken rice and the depth of the demi-glace sauce.

  A comforting sensation began to melt through her body, from the inside out.

  "...Delicious."

  That one word carried so much.

  Little by little, everything that had been wound up inside her began to gently unravel.

  The man sat across from her, quietly eating the same meal.

  He said nothing.

  But his silence didn't feel cold—it was comforting.

  Mizuki began to speak, bit by bit.

  "...It's been six months since I started working at this place.

  I didn't really know what I was doing at first, but before I knew it, people kept handing off cases to me..."

  "People who know how to slack off seem to get by just fine,

  while those who do things properly just get stuck.

  I don't get it sometimes."

  "There are days I want to quit, but I don't have the courage to run away.

  At the same time, I'm not strong enough to push through either.

  I feel like I'm just... stuck in the middle."

  She set down her fork and let out a long sigh.

  "That's why... today, I wanted to eat something for myself."

  After a brief pause, she gave a small smile.

  "...You know, I realized something.

  Maybe the best thing about being an adult is getting to choose what you eat."

  At those words, the man lifted his gaze ever so slightly.

  When we were kids, we couldn't choose what was for dinner. You'd want curry, but end up with nikujaga—simmered beef and potatoes—instead.

  But as adults... we can say, 'I'm tired today, so I'll have omelette rice.'

  And that little choice—it kind of makes life easier, don't you think?"

  The man waited a moment, then spoke softly.

  "Being able to choose—that's a kind of strength."

  The words landed gently in Mizuki's heart.

  "...Thank you. Really. That was wonderful."

  She stood and gave a deep, slow bow.

  Mizuki opened the front door.

  Soft daylight spilled in, warmer than the gray sky from earlier that morning.

  The clouds had begun to clear, as if the gloomy morning had never happened.

  She gave a small bow and quietly stepped outside.

  As she walked along the grassy path, she slipped her hand into her pocket.

  Her fingers brushed against a paper napkin.

  She pulled it out.

  On the corner, small numbers were scribbled:

  "7663"

  "...Huh?"

  The sound left her lips without thinking.

  Next to the numbers was a small stain—probably from the demi-glace sauce.

  Was it a receipt? Some sort of order number?

  She had no idea what it meant.

  Still, something about it tugged at her.

  She folded the napkin and tucked it into the inner pocket of her bag.

  Just before crossing the pedestrian bridge, she turned around to glance back.

  All she saw was... an empty lot.

  No building.

  No sign.

  No handwritten board that once read OPEN.

  "...What?"

  She stepped closer, but there was nothing—just overgrown grass and the faint scent of wind.

  She was certain the place had been there, just moments ago.

  And yet, she wasn't startled.

  Strangely, she felt calm.

  There was still a lingering warmth in her pocket.

  That alone made it feel real.

  She gave a gentle bow to the empty space where the shop had once stood,

  turned around, and began walking.

  The next day.

  Mizuki sat at her desk, picking up another call.

  "Yes, this is Yazawa. Yes, I've already contacted the repair shop..."

  Her voice sounded the same as always.

  But even she could tell—something inside her had shifted, just a little.

  Her shoulders felt a touch lighter.

  The sense of urgency in her chest had eased.

  Her problems weren't gone.

  Nothing had been solved.

  But yesterday, she had sat down and truly eaten a meal for herself—

  and that small act seemed to be holding her up.

  At lunchtime, Mizuki tucked her phone into her bag

  and walked not toward the usual path,

  but down the same hidden street from the day before.

  Would the place still be there?

  Or had it really been just a dream?

  She crossed the pedestrian bridge and stepped into the overgrown path.

  The grass rustled gently in the wind.

  ──Just as she expected, there was nothing there.

  An empty lot.

  A weathered fence. A crooked street sign.

  Nothing had changed from the day before.

  But Mizuki smiled softly.

  "...I guess that makes sense."

  She didn't feel disappointed.

  If anything, she felt the urge to say thank you.

  So she did—bowing her head slightly.

  As she turned to head back the way she came,

  she rounded a corner—and passed a woman.

  Shoulder-length bob cut. Navy pantsuit.

  She walked with hurried steps, eyes glued to her phone, looking a little restless.

  For a moment, Mizuki saw her yesterday self in that woman.

  Just then, behind her, she thought she heard a faint rustle of grass.

  She didn't turn around.

  She just kept walking, toward the pedestrian bridge.

  Her steps felt just a little lighter than before.