The basil sauce simmered gently, like a contented breath. Steam and aroma climbed the light tiles, mingling with the vintage songs on the radio and the clink of cutlery. A Saturday night at the Tramonto Rosso (Red Sunset) sounded like a party and smelled like family Sundays: sweet tomato, a hint of garlic, warm bread calling from afar.
Aiko cut across the dining room on the diagonal with the ease of someone who knows every tile. Tray glued to her palm, flick of the wrist, smile at the ready. The air stirred her high blond ponytail like a little flag. Her sneakers touched down lightly: they hardly made a sound, if not for the laughter that now and then bubbled out of her.
She was petite and radiant, fair skin and "Made in Italy" features—courtesy of her mom. From her dad she'd inherited a zen calm that saw her through even the worst shifts, and a stubborn passion for hot tea, sipped on the sly by the espresso machine. That mix made her the restaurant's secret ingredient: invisible on the menu, indispensable in the result.
"Mrs. Tanaka, tonight's tiramisù will make you forget your diet!" she said, setting down two plates of tagliatelle with grace.
The customer gave her an affectionate little tap. "Aiko, you're an antidote to sadness."
"Credit to the mixed DNA: half lasagna, half matcha!" she replied, winking.
The place was packed all the way out to the garden planters. Parmigiana perfumed the air, glasses sought each other for toasts, conversations rose in small choruses. Someone was humming Mina along with the radio. Two good-luck talismans hung from the counter, a souvenir from her parents' mountain trip: no one really noticed them, but Aiko's eyes always flicked their way, as if checking they were keeping watch.
"Give me a minute—the second courses are on their way!" she called, weaving around a stroller and straightening a rebellious fork on the fly.
"Aiko, the group of six for outside just arrived!" her father's voice slipped out of the kitchen along with a stronger scent of oregano.
"I'll park them in the garden! And Mom, get that bread out before it turns into building material!" she answered, already with a menu in one hand and a carafe in the other.
The nightly micro-chaos swelled all at once: one table was asking for the bill "right now, right now," another was waving for extra Parmesan, the oven was sending worrying signals. Aiko poked her head into the kitchen: "Dad, the paccheri for table three? And the carbonara for five—please don't let it turn into a frittata."
Her mother—messy chignon and the charisma of a former Cinecittà diva—popped out with a basket of bread still radiating heat. "Without her, this place would crumble like a tower of breadsticks," she murmured, proud, as she passed by.
"It's home," Aiko replied, squeezing her arm gently. "Helping out is only natural."
She wasn't "a hand"; she was the metronome. When her parents lost the tempo, she'd go click and everything fell back on the beat.
A regular raised his glass as she filled it. "Aiko, how fast do you go? You need a clone!"
"Two, please: one does the dishes, the other cashes out the till. I'll wear the boss's apron." And off she went, another smile left on the table like a tip.
In a discreet corner—known for laughter that started low and finished in echo—sat, as always, a few professors from the Institute of Occult Arts, which was located about two hundred meters from the restaurant. Loyal patrons, decided tastes, a presence that made a few heads turn.
"Gojo-sensei, no glasses today? You almost intimidate me," Aiko said, setting down a perfectly shaped margherita pizza.
The professor slid off his blindfold in slow motion. "I forgot them. But I brought the charm. That enough?"
"If you stop sitting on the tablecloth, I'd say yes. Otherwise you'd better put them back on," she shot back, pointing to the edge perilously close to his theatrical perch.
Shoko raised her glass, amused. "Aiko should teach verbal self-defense at our place."
"More effective than a couple of spells!" she said, moving on, leaving a trace of laughter at the table.
The group of six arrived with a gust of fresh air.
"Good evening! Garden? Follow me!"
Extra chairs added, a candle that refused to light—Aiko convinced it on the third match—and a short circuit of orders: table eight was missing the caprese, table four had asked for no onion, at table five the guanciale was about to pass its peak. She drew a deep breath, slotted the tickets together like tiles, and offered waiting guests a courtesy apology: "I'll bring you a little bite from the kitchen in the meantime—no one lives on patience alone."
In the midst of it all, she still found room for details: a bib straightened, a bottle chilled to just the right point, a few low words to her mother—"The bread is perfect"—that earned a tired, happy smile.
The evening moved on like a carafe that never seems to empty. The restaurant felt like an orchestra: pans keeping the beat, cutlery as percussion, voices like strings. And Aiko, with her waste-less movement, was the invisible conductor.
At last, when the dishes were a disarmed army and the sauce just a scent in the air, Aiko poked her head out the door to meet the night. She sat on the first step and loosened her ponytail: her golden hair fell to her backside like a thank-you. Tokyo shone with neon, and a few stubborn stars pierced the glow. The light chill cleared her head.
Her phone buzzed: a message from her father—"Brava. Without you tonight I'd have gotten lost among the paccheri."
She laughed to herself. Half lasagna, half matcha, she thought. It works.
She inhaled slowly, counting to four, like when you have to keep calm and the order queue looks scary. She was tired—the good kind that leaves a clean satisfaction on you. She stood with a small sigh, brushed flour off her apron, and glanced at her reflection in the window: fresh-faced, blue eyes shining like after a good movie.
"Lovely evening," she murmured. "But now: pajamas, pillow, and koala mode."
She went back in, double-locked the door, turned off the dining-room lights one by one. The last clink of cutlery dissolved into silence. At the till, the talismans swayed just a little, like a goodnight nod.
It was her perfect chaos. And Aiko swam in it, free.
And yet, beneath that freedom there was a small crease, a desire stretching out like a hand in search of something. She couldn't quite name it: perhaps a newness that would unsettle her rhythm just enough to make it… her own.
***
It was a beautiful day at Tramonto Rosso, the following Saturday. The noon sun slanted in through the glass windows, a warm light that made the glasses on the tables gleam and laid golden stripes across the beige tablecloths. The aroma of focaccia—oil, rosemary, a hint of coarse salt—announced a Saturday rush. In the kitchen, timers talked to each other; in the dining room, chairs let out a brief sigh whenever someone sat down.
Aiko—black jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled—moved the room the way a conductor launches into the first movement. Her blond ponytail followed her step; her blue eyes checked the details: a knife to shift by two fingers, a crooked candle to straighten, two glasses that didn't quite match. Her cheerful voice did the rest.
"Aiko, two penne all'arrabbiata and a lasagna to send out!" her mother called from the kitchen.
"Right away, mama!" she answered, pivoting in a heartbeat toward a customer at the counter who was beckoning to her.
"Don't you get tired of shouting orders all day?" the man joked.
Aiko shot him a playful glare. "If you all stop eating, maybe I'll rest too!" She smiled and jotted the order down on the fly.
The bell jingled, ushering in a gust of air and a group that turned a few heads. Satoru Gojo burst in as if he were the proprietor of light itself, followed by three students in dark uniforms.
"Welcome!" said Aiko, notepad already in hand. "Table for four, sensei?"
"Table for four—but treat us right: I'm here to teach my students what 'authentic' means. Megumi Fushiguro, Nobara Kugisaki, Itadori Yuji. I'll taste first—for science."
The three bowed; Aiko did the same, then led them to a table by the window, where a small jar of fresh flowers held the center like a smile.
She sized them up with the practiced eye of someone who has to grasp in an instant what kind of guests she has before her: the boy with elegant features—cultivated quiet, eyes that weigh words before speaking them; the copper-haired girl—spry, posture that says "I don't spook easily"; and the third… Pink, tousled hair, a red hoodie under his jacket, lively eyes that seemed to take everything in with a healthy hunger. The kind of hunger that, in a restaurant, bodes well for rapport.
He dropped his gaze to the menu when he realized he'd been seen; a moment later he lifted it again, finding her eyes once more. A light contact, like a fingertap on the table: present, not intrusive.
"Good day, everyone, I'm Aiko—I'll be taking care of you. What would you like to try?" she asked, pencil at the ready.
Megumi pointed to the no-frills ricotta ravioli. Nobara ordered spaghetti with clams with a smile that said "I know what I want." The pink-haired boy hesitated, the page rustling between his fingers.
"I recommend the pesto gnocchi," Aiko offered, professional but warm. "They're as soft as clouds today."
He nodded, as if relieved to lean on that certainty. "Then… I'll have those. Thank you"
"Excellent choice. I'll be right back with warm bread."
The dance resumed. Two cappuccinos for the table by the door, a bill to print, a reservation asking for ten minutes. The daily micro-conflict of service arrived on cue: the order printer threw a fit just as her mother called for a second arrabbiata. Aiko opened the drawer, freed a jammed scrap of paper, gave it a sharp tap: brrrt—back to life. "Dad, lasagna for table seven! And the arrabbiata: 'human' spicy, not 'criminal,' thanks!" she called toward the kitchen.
She stopped by the first-years' table with the bread basket, still alive with warmth. "Careful, it's hot," she warned, setting it in the center. The pink-haired boy looked up just then and gave her an awkward smile, as if he'd caught her doing something special.
A faint blush rose to his cheeks. "Thank you… Aiko-san."
"My pleasure," she replied—same as she said to everyone, and yet with a fraction of a second lingering on his name.
Behind her, Gojo was already reaching for the olive oil. "Guys, take notes: this is the appetizer that opens the heart."
"And the cholesterol," Megumi murmured, barely moving his lips.
Nobara chuckled. "I only take notes on tiramisù."
Aiko left them to the joy of bread and went back to her rounds: she topped up glasses, soothed two tourists lost between "carbonara" and "carbohydrates," nudged a high chair by a hair. Keeping an eye on the window table, she noticed that pink flash slipping in and out of her field of vision like a new refrain. It wasn't a fixation; it was attention settling where it found something good.
The gnocchi arrived steaming, the pesto glossy. "Here you are," she said, serving with care. "If they're too hot, give them a moment. The aroma isn't going anywhere."
Yuji—Itadori, remember that—nodded, a brief glance her way before the first bite. Gojo gave a thumbs-up, Nobara offered a satisfied "mm-hmm," Megumi granted a nod: unanimous approval. A tiny knot between Aiko's shoulder blades, one she hadn't even known was there, loosened.
Another round, another basket of focaccia gone sooner than expected. Service advanced exactly as it should: no heroes, no disasters, with the living precision of good days. When she passed the window again, she caught a simple image: the pink-haired boy sharing the last piece of bread with Nobara, laughing at something Gojo had exaggerated. Clear eyes, contagious laugh. Yes, he really did seem like a good guy.
Aiko turned toward the kitchen, mind already on which desserts to suggest. Calm down—it's just a table like the others, she reminded herself, straightening her shirt. And yet, in the play of reflections on the glass, that pink kept returning, like a detail the eye sought even without meaning to.