The young workaholic alarm buzzed against his nightstand like it was offended he hadn't woken up earlier. He cracked one eye open, groaned, and smacked the clock until it stopped vibrating. His apartment was still dim, blinds half-closed, the faint morning light leaking through like it was sneaking in without permission.
Ken dragged himself out of bed, showered on autopilot, and somehow made it halfway decent to work. Days slipped by the same way – spreadsheets, phone calls, half-cold coffee, deadlines, and the office AC always a little too strong. Weeks stacked together without asking him first.
At one point, his boss stopped by his cubicle, clapping a heavy hand on Ken's shoulder.
"Good work on the report, Ken! Really sharp, really efficient."
Ken perked up slightly. "Thank you, sir... (I guess...)" Ken sigh softly.
"Yes, yes, excellent." His boss nodded proudly… then dumped a thick folder onto Ken's desk. "Since you're doing so well, I'm trusting you with this too."
Ken stared at the folder like it had personally wronged him.
His boss walked away humming, completely unaware of the tiny piece of Ken's soul that floated out of his body like a departing spirit.
Weeks went exactly like that... praise, then punishment disguised as responsibility. By the third week, the bags under his eyes were dark enough to have their own payroll numbers.
The office lights always felt a little too bright at night, the kind that made everything look washed out and unreal. Ken sat at his desk, tie loosened, fingers frozen above the keyboard as the clock on his monitor flicked from 10:58 to 10:59. Another late shift. Another blend of spreadsheets, meetings, silent nods, and the feeling of drifting through days he didn't quite remember living.
He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. The building's cleaning staff had already passed through, their carts rattling like soft reminders that he should've gone home hours ago. But going home didn't feel like going anywhere.
His apartment was quiet in a slightly too hollow way. He'd gotten used to it over the past two years, but certain nights, usually the ones when he was too tired to think straight, memories from two years ago tried to slip through the cracks: His mother in a hospital bed, her smile still warm even when her voice weakened. His father holding onto hope longer than the doctors did. The steady decline, one after another, until the silence filled everything.
He shook the thoughts off the way he always did... not harshly, just tiredly.
By the time Ken finally left the office, the streets were nearly empty. Street lamps buzzed, cars were sparse, and the distant hum of the city felt more like background noise than life. His stomach growled. He realized he hadn't eaten anything since noon.
He walked aimlessly for a few minutes, letting the night air clear his head. That was when he noticed it – a small eatery tucked between a closed bookstore and a shuttered laundry shop. A faint warm light glowed from inside. The sign was a little faded, the doorway narrow, and the smell of broth drifted out into the street.
He'd passed this area dozens of times without noticing it.
He paused, then stepped inside.
The bell at the door chimed softly, and a gentle voice greeted him.
"Welcome, young man. Come in, sit wherever you like."
An elderly woman stood behind the counter, wearing an apron patterned with tiny cranes. She had soft eyes, the kind that seemed to understand more than she let on. Behind her, an older man stirred a pot of simmering soup, steam rising around him like a quiet halo.
The place was small – five tables, handwritten menus, shelves filled with ceramics and old photographs. Warm, almost strangely so, like stepping into someone's memory.
"One Udon, please." Ken then sat at the counter waiting for his late night meal as the elderly man nodded.
"You look exhausted," the woman said with a light chuckle. "Long day?"
"Something like that," he replied.
She poured tea into a chipped but well-kept cup and slid it toward him. "Drink. First-time customers always get tea, we also just about to close."
He bowed slightly in thanks and took a sip. It was mild, comforting, the kind that made the tension in his shoulders ease a little.
"What brings you out so late?" the man behind the counter asked without turning from the pot.
"Work," Ken answered. "I kind of… lost track of time."
"That happens," the woman said. "But eating late is still better than not eating at all."
After a few minute been passed by, she then placed a warm bowl of udon in front of him. The broth was clear but rich, the scent gentle. Nothing fancy, nothing overwhelming – just honest food.
Ken didn't realize how hungry he was until the first bite.
They let him eat quietly, not interrupting except for a light, "More tea?" He nodded, and she refilled his cup without a word.
Somewhere around halfway through his meal, he noticed the couple exchanging a glance – not sad, but something softer, heavier. A kind of knowing look. Then it passed, and they went back to their quiet routine, serving a few customers.
When he finished, he felt more rested than he had in days.
"Thank you," he said, setting down his chopsticks.
The woman smiled. "Come again if you like. We're open late for Monday to Friday, it's just the two of us. Not many customers at this hour."
The man let out a small huff of amusement. "We prefer it that way. Peaceful... but we do open every day unless it's holiday, Saturday to Sunday we opened early."
After hearing the information Ken then paid, bowed, and stepped outside. The night felt a little less cold now.
He took a few steps, then glanced back at the window. The couple was talking softly to each other, the warm light framing them like a picture from another era.
He didn't know why, but something about them lingered in his mind as he walked home – that faint weariness in their eyes, the softness in their voices, the strange pull of the little shop.
He told himself he might stop by again sometime. And without meaning to, he already knew he would.
(End Chapter 1)