Kobayashi had always said he didn't believe in ghosts.
Not the kind that rattled chains or whispered from empty corners.
But memories?
Those lingered.
They clung to kitchen tiles and wooden floors, settled between bent menus and faded price tags. They sat in the quiet space after the last customer left, in the sound of a chair scraping too softly, like someone long gone had just stood up again.
Some days, it felt like his ramen shop remembered more than he did.
He stood at the counter late into the evening, wiping down a bowl he didn't quite need to wash again. The day's rush was over. The streets outside had slowed. Only a few salarymen wandered past now, jackets slung over shoulders, laughter tired and hoarse.
He could close early.
No one would care.
But he didn't.
The lights stayed on.
The stove stayed warm.
One seat—second from the left—still had a cup of cold tea beside it. Untouched.
He left it there.
Just for a little while.
—
There was a time, years ago, when he'd thought about shutting it all down.
Not because business was bad.
But because everything else was.
Back then, the shop was newer, the paint fresher, the sign above the door not yet cracked by weather and time. His wife had still been alive, and the air had smelled like ginger and laughter.
But sickness crept in slowly.
And grief, when it came, didn't crash.
It hollowed.
Kobayashi had worked through it like a man possessed. Stirred broth. Washed bowls. Sharpened knives.
Anything to avoid walking into an empty apartment.
Anything to avoid the silence of a room meant for two.
There was a week he didn't open the shop at all.
People left notes on the shutter.
Elias, barely sixteen at the time, dropped off a tray of cookies and sat outside for three hours without saying a word.
When Kobayashi finally opened again, he didn't say anything either.
Just poured tea. Pulled up two bowls.
And they ate.
Side by side.
That was the first time he noticed it.
How food could be a language.
How silence could be comfort if it had weight behind it.
—
He hadn't thought of those days in a long time.
Not really.
But tonight, with the shop quiet again and Mira's voice still echoing faintly in the back of his mind—soft, raw, scared—he let the memories creep in.
She reminded him of someone else, too.
His daughter.
Not by blood. Not legally. But someone he'd taken in for a while. A girl from a bad situation who used to sit in the corner of his shop doing homework while he prepped dinner for the crowd.
She left one day without saying goodbye.
He never blamed her.
But he never forgot either.
And maybe that's why he always kept one bowl more than he needed. One extra seat open. One light on longer than it should be.
Just in case someone came back.
Just in case someone needed it.
He sat down at the counter finally, letting out a long breath. The kind that came from deep in the ribs, heavy with things unsaid.
The tea had gone cold.
He didn't mind.
Outside, the wind picked up. A faint drizzle misted the windows, catching in the glow of the streetlamps.
The city exhaled.
So did he.
—
The door creaked open.
Kobayashi didn't look up right away.
But the footsteps were light. Familiar.
Mira slid into the seat two spaces down.
"Yo, Busy tonight?" she asked.
He grunted. "Packed."
She snorted quietly. "Same here."
They sat in silence for a bit.
Then he pushed the bowl of cold tea her way.
"You're late."
"I wasn't planning to come," Mira admitted. "But I was walking. And this place was still glowing."
Kobayashi leaned on the counter, arms crossed.
"You find your answer yet?"
Mira hesitated.
"Not exactly," she said. "But… I think I'm not afraid of asking anymore."
He nodded once.
"That's something nice to hear."
The rain outside softened to a drizzle. Mira reached into her pocket, pulled out the chocolate he'd given her days ago. Still wrapped. Unopened.
She set it gently on the counter.
"I think I'm ready for the next one now," she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
Then stood, moved to the back, and returned with a new bar—darker wrapper this time, with a hint of sea salt.
"You'll like this one," he muttered.
Mira smiled faintly. "I probably will."
And as they sat there—two people with more history behind them than either would say aloud—the ramen shop stayed open.
Just a little longer.
Just in case someone else needed a place to land.