The dinner rush was starting to die down.
The kitchen was still warm, still humming with the low rattle of the dishwasher and the occasional shout from Victor in the back, but the chaos had settled into something steadier—like the tail end of a summer storm. Ryunosuke wiped down the prep station in slow, practiced circles. His sleeves were damp with dishwater, and a faint line of steam curled up from the rice cooker behind him.
Amelia stood at the stove, stirring a pot that didn't need stirring.
She was still frowning, but not at the food.
"I saw your sketchbook," she said without looking at him.
Ryunosuke froze for a moment, his rag suspended mid-wipe. "Which one?"
"The one with the alley mural. And the old man on the milk crate. You draw like you're remembering something."Her tone wasn't critical—just quiet, thoughtful, like she was still somewhere inside the page.
He shrugged. "I just draw what I see."
"Mm," she said, the way mothers do when they know more than they're letting on.
A silence settled between them. Not heavy. Just... familiar.
He leaned against the counter. "You used to draw. Before."
Amelia paused.
Before.
There was always a before in conversations like these—before his father died, before the restaurant became a second job and a third life, before grief folded itself into their routines like another ingredient.
She didn't answer right away. Just tapped the edge of the wooden spoon against the pot. Once. Twice.
"I did," she said finally. "But paper doesn't keep the lights on."
Ryunosuke looked at her, and for a moment, she seemed smaller than usual. Not weak—never that—but tired in a way she rarely let show.
"You keep everything on," he said.
Amelia scoffed softly, still stirring. "I just keep us moving."
He wanted to say something more. Something deeper. That he noticed the circles under her eyes. The way her voice thinned at night. How she still set out a second pair of chopsticks beside the burner—like she used to, back when—
But the printer clicked, spitting out another order.
Amelia grabbed the ticket without missing a beat.
Back to motion.
Ryunosuke watched her for another second, then reached for the takeout containers.
Their conversation was over, but the message lingered. In this kitchen, love was measured in effort. In staying. In remembering, even when it hurt.
And in picking up the next order.