Chihara Rinto opened his cupboard only to find a stash of instant noodles staring back at him. He hesitated for a moment, then rummaged through the counter and pulled out his wallet. Turning to Konoe Hitomi, he said with a shrug, "Let's go out and grab something to eat."
Offering her instant noodles would've been embarrassingly stingy, especially since he'd been surviving on them for days now—his appetite waning from sheer repetition. Besides, after cashing that hefty thirty-thousand-yen signing bonus, he figured it was high time to treat himself to something better. The problem was, he didn't know how to cook, and dining alone at some fancy restaurant felt awkward. But here she was, practically delivering herself as an excuse for company.
Konoe Hitomi shifted uncomfortably, her voice soft and hesitant. "I… I don't have any money on me."
"No worries," Chihara waved off her concern dismissively. How much could a girl like her possibly eat anyway? If she had the guts to bring six bean buns as thanks earlier, he sure wasn't going to flinch at treating her to a proper meal.
In life, there were times when you needed to play your cards right. To those in power, stand firm; to those less fortunate, show respect—even if it seemed naive. That's just how he liked things. It made him feel at ease, though maybe it did make him seem a bit green around the edges.
Guess this is what they call immaturity.
Relieved, Konoe Hitomi followed him toward the door, her face lighting up with gratitude. "Chihara-sensei, you're really kind. You're the nicest person I've met since coming to Tokyo… Everyone else here seems so angry all the time, yelling over every little thing!"
Yeah, probably because you keep screwing things up, Chihara thought sarcastically but kept it to himself. Instead, he asked casually, "If you don't like it here, have you thought about going back?"
The truth was, once you ventured out into the world, no place ever quite measured up to home.
Hitomi shook her head vigorously. "No way. I'm determined to make something of myself before I return home in glory."
Stubborn kid, Chihara mused silently, impressed despite himself. Without another word, he led her down the street toward the only commercial strip where he lived. There was a small restaurant tucked away there that he vaguely remembered passing by but never entered.
It didn't take long for him to spot the place. The storefront was modest—half the size of most establishments—and stepping inside revealed a narrow yet surprisingly deep space. Clearly, the owner had worked with what little land they had, resulting in an oddly shaped building. By now, the dinner rush had died down, leaving only a handful of customers scattered about.
Chihara scanned the room briefly before settling at an empty table. Hitomi sat across from him, perching delicately on the edge of her seat.
He gestured toward the menu board hanging on the wall. "Go ahead and pick whatever you want. Don't hold back."
She didn't need telling twice. Swallowing hard, she murmured shyly, "It's freezing in Tokyo. I've been craving stew."
"Stew it is," he replied, scanning the options. "And let's see… No fish for you, so we'll get fried chicken nuggets, a vegetable tempura platter, grilled lamb chops, and rice. Does miso soup or salt-grilled rice balls sound good?"
Her eyes lit up as she dabbed at her mouth nervously. "Yes, yes! Just plain rice is fine."
Life hadn't been easy for her lately. Scraping by meal-to-meal while navigating the challenges of being young and inexperienced in a big city left her feeling perpetually lost. She often felt like the entire world was conspiring against her.
"That works," Chihara confirmed, pulling out his phone to calculate costs mentally. With a bit more cash in his pocket these days, the bill wouldn't even dent his budget. Everything except the vegetables was affordable, and the whole meal came out to roughly $35 USD. For two people indulging in hearty comfort food, it felt almost too good to be true—a bargain by anyone's standards.
Just as he finalized the order, he turned to signal the server—but froze mid-motion.
A slender girl dressed in indigo-blue chef's attire approached their table, carrying a tray with barley tea and steaming towels. Her presence caught his breath.
"Welcome," she greeted warmly, her voice gentle. "What would you like to order?"
Chihara stared, transfixed. She couldn't have been older than twenty, her hair wrapped neatly in a white towel save for two delicate strands framing her face. Her features were soft and lovely, her smile slightly squinted but radiating warmth and charm.
For a moment, words escaped him. She called again, tilting her head curiously. "Sir?"
Finally snapping out of it, Chihara cleared his throat awkwardly. "Ah, yes. We'll have the stew, lamb chops…" His voice trailed off as his mind blanked.
Seeing his hesitation, Hitomi jumped in quickly. "We'd like the stew, fried chicken nuggets, vegetable tempura platter, grilled lamb chops, and rice. Oh, and please no bonito flakes in the stew or miso soup—I don't eat fish."
The waitress jotted everything down with a polite nod. "Would you care for alcohol?"
Hitomi glanced at Chihara, seeking permission. "Sensei, do you drink?"
Still reeling, Chihara avoided looking at the waitress and muttered distractedly, "Not tonight. Go ahead if you'd like."
Her face brightened instantly. "Then I'll have a bottle of barley shochu and a sake warmer, please."
"Very well. Please wait a moment." The waitress gave her outfit a quick glance, deducing she wasn't a student, smiled faintly, and headed back to the kitchen. Unconsciously, Chihara's gaze followed her retreating figure.
Hitomi noticed, quirking an eyebrow. "Sensei, do you know her?"
"No," he replied, shaking his head reluctantly. "She just looks… uncannily like someone I used to know."
His tone carried a hint of melancholy, and he trailed off, lost in thought. After a pause, he reached for the teapot and gulped down half its contents without checking the temperature. When the dryness in his throat subsided, bitterness lingered instead.
Before he crossed over to this parallel world, his life had been straightforward. High school, college—all steps taken deliberately toward his dream of working in film. Unlike many clueless graduates who chose majors based solely on test scores, he genuinely loved directing. And during university, amidst relentless academic pressure, he developed feelings for a classmate—a quiet admiration that bordered on infatuation. He even dreamed of marrying her one day.
But circumstances intervened. Financial struggles and overwhelming coursework forced him to prioritize his goals over romance. Though unspoken, their connection grew stronger through shared moments in libraries and classrooms. They existed in that liminal space between friends and lovers, until fate—or rather, crossing dimensions—ripped them apart.
Now, sitting in a tiny Tokyo eatery, he found himself face-to-face with a waitress who bore an eerie resemblance to the woman he'd planned to marry. For a fleeting second, he wondered if destiny had somehow reunited them. But reality set in soon enough—they weren't the same person, merely doppelgängers sharing similar traits.
It was enough to scramble anyone's thoughts.
"Sensei?" Hitomi's cheerful voice interrupted his reverie. "Are you sure you won't join me for a drink?"
The petite girl with her ponytail and round cheeks seemed utterly carefree compared to him. As a middle-aged woman delivered the shochu, Hitomi eagerly began warming the liquor, inhaling its aroma with evident delight.
Chihara snapped back to attention. "You're drinking all that? Aren't you underage?"
The bottle looked massive—at least two and a half liters. "Six bean buns earned you dinner, not babysitting a drunk teenager!" he grumbled internally. "And isn't it illegal for minors to drink? I don't need trouble with the law!"
Startled, Hitomi hushed him urgently, glancing around nervously. "Please keep your voice down, Sensei! It's okay, I've been drinking since I was little. I can handle eight bottles of this stuff… Honestly, I'm not a lush! We ama need alcohol to ward off rheumatism. It's part of the job!"
Chihara blinked, momentarily speechless. "So now you're an ama?"
Sensing the sudden tension, Hitomi wilted under his gaze. "I-I'm sorry. I won't drink anymore…"
He sighed, relenting. "Fine, finish this one bottle, but don't overdo it. Being tipsy in an area you are not familiar with is asking for trouble."
"Thank you, Sensei. You're truly kind," she bowed deeply before changing the subject. "Earlier, you mentioned finding stable work. Could you give me some advice on where to start?"
"Well…" Chihara leaned back, deep in thought. This was indeed a tricky question, requiring careful consideration.
Hitomi straightened up respectfully, hands folded neatly on her lap, ready to listen intently. But before he could respond, the waitress returned with their piping-hot stew.
"Careful—it's very hot," she warned softly.
Once again, Chihara's focus splintered. Watching her move gracefully between tables stirred memories he'd tried to bury. The resemblance was uncanny—her eyes, her posture, her demeanor. Only this girl was thinner, paler, almost ethereal, as if her veins pulsed visibly beneath translucent skin.
Was she unwell? Did no one look after her?
The stew smelled divine—a hearty mix of chunky daikon radish, potatoes, fatty pork slices, and diced carrots glistening in savory broth. Even Hitomi appeared mesmerized.
Chihara watched the waitress retreat before turning back to Hitomi, who was still ogling the dish. Smiling faintly, he urged, "Dig in."
"I will!" Remembering her manners, she served him first before ladling a portion for herself. Taking a bite of tender daikon, tears welled up in her eyes, spilling onto her cheeks.
"It's been so long since I ate something warm!" she exclaimed earnestly. "Sensei, I'll never forget this kindness."
"There's no need to thank me. Eat slowly."
Silence fell as Hitomi devoured her meal with gusto. Chihara watched her, understanding the hardship of fending for oneself in a foreign land. Letting her savor the moment, he refrained from bringing up serious topics—for wanderers adrift in unfamiliar lands, a single satisfying meal could mean the world.
He picked at his own food absentmindedly, stealing glances at the young waitress bustling behind the counter.
Was this fate playing its hand once more?