From that day on, I was the live-in house manager of Nightlight, a women-only share house. The old Taisho-era modern Western-style house that Tomi had left to me. Upstairs lived four residents with tired faces. None of them had let their guard down around me yet. The least I could do was warm their stomachs, so I went and stood in the kitchen.
What was in the fridge didn't inspire much confidence. A daikon going limp, a few eggs, tofu, a sheet of fried tofu, miso. That, and the kombu and bonito flakes Tomi had left behind.
It was enough.
I sank the kombu into a pot of water and set it over low heat. Just before it boiled, I lifted the kombu out and added a handful of bonito flakes. Slowly, an amber dashi rose up.
Kombu and bonito, one to one.
Do that, and the savoriness jumps to many times what either gives you alone. I know the theory, but it isn't as though I count it out each time. My hands were moving before my head had time to think.
When I dissolved the miso, the steam danced as it simmered, and a fragrant, gentle smell spread through the whole kitchen.
I sliced the daikon thin and cooked it in dashi until it went soft and limp. I soaked the eggs with dashi and rolled them up with long cooking chopsticks. The egg sizzled, and a soft, jiggling, half-set dashi omelet took shape. The tofu got a few garnishes and became chilled tofu. Chopped green onion and grated ginger, just a dab of each. I seared the fried tofu over the flame until it was crisp and fragrant.
Leftovers alone, and I had a full meal of soup and three sides.
I carried the steaming tray to the dining table.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
The four of them still looked a little wary, but they drifted unsteadily to the table and sat down all the same. It seemed they couldn't resist the smell.
The steam rising from the miso soup bowls lit up the four tired faces with a faint glow.
"...Thank you for the food."
Someone put her hands together, quietly.
Ms. Nanase timidly brought a piece of dashi omelet to her mouth.
Her chopsticks stopped.
"..."
Her eyes filled rapidly with tears.
"...It's delicious."
It just slipped out, in a voice so small she probably didn't notice it herself.
That was the signal, and after that, the four of them couldn't stop eating. Their faces still wary. But utterly absorbed. Wolfing it down, and yet treating every bite as precious.
Petite Ms. Nanase hurriedly stuffed another slice of dashi omelet into her mouth. Ms. Odagiri, the student, had left her phone on the table and was sipping her miso soup with the bowl cradled in both hands. Ms. Makabe, the manga artist, was shoveling in rice when she suddenly seemed about to say something, and then didn't.
Ms. Tono took one bite of the chilled tofu and stopped, her chopsticks still in her hand. Her lowered shoulders were trembling, very slightly.
She might be crying, I thought. But I pretended not to notice. There's nothing shameful about a worn-out grown-up crying over something warm to eat.
I watched the scene. Deep in my chest, I felt a slow warmth.
Oh, Tomi.
This is it. This is probably the only thing I can do.
Ms. Tono looked up. Those eyes, frayed by work, had become a little defenseless, like a child's.
I said it as casually as I could.
"Welcome home. That was a long day, wasn't it?"
"..."
"There will always be a warm meal here."
I could tell each of the four of them caught her breath. Nobody said a word.
There was only the sound of miso soup being sipped and the sound of Komugi's happily wagging tail, quietly filling Nightlight that night.
By the time they'd finished eating, everyone's expression had softened a little. Even so, they probably didn't "trust" me yet. Naturally. People's guard doesn't come down in a single night.
As the four of them headed upstairs, I called after them.
"Um. There'll be food tomorrow, too."
Halfway up the stairs, Ms. Tono glanced back. She started to say something, stopped, gave a small nod, and went on up.
Carrying the empty dishes to the sink, I laughed to myself.
There'll be food tomorrow, too. That such a small thing could be so much of a reason to live.
At my feet, Komugi gave a little woof of a yawn.
"Good night to you, too."
The black shape of the landline sat quietly in the moonlight.
Mornings begin with the smell of miso soup.
I've always woken before dawn. Nobody asks me to, but I end up standing in the kitchen anyway.
Before that, though, there was shopping to do. Last night's fridge had been far too sparse.
I made just the dashi in advance, and when the sky began to pale, I took Komugi's leash and went out the kitchen door. If I called it a walk, he'd have no complaints.
On the shopping street, every shutter was still down. Even so, the bakery window alone was lit, and the smell of fresh bread drifted out into the lane. In front of the fish shop, foam boxes just back from the market were stacked up, and the old man from the greengrocer's was crouched on the sidewalk, unpacking his load.
"We're not open yet."
When he said that, I gave a little bow. I'd been in this town half a year, and not one shop knew my face yet.
Just then, Komugi lazily stretched his neck toward the old man.
The old man's hands stopped.
"...Hey, aren't you Komugi?"
His wrinkled hands ruffled the golden head roughly. Then he looked up and shouted down the street.
"Hey! Tomi's dog is here!"
Here and there, shutters went rattling up.
The fishmonger came out, the baker poked his head out of his workroom still in his flour-covered apron, and the old woman from the dried-goods store came walking over in her slip-on sandals. In no time, Komugi was surrounded and being petted all over.
"You the new one at Nightlight?"
"My name is Kashiwagi. Tomi entrusted the house to me."
I don't remember much of what happened after that.
Daikon and carrots went into a bag, four fillets of salmon got wrapped up, and a whole loaf of unsliced bread, still hot, was pressed into my hands. Butter and cheese off the shelf got tossed in too, as if it were an afterthought. When I mentioned there were four young people in the house, the old woman from the dried-goods store added a handful of wakame.
When I went to take out my wallet, the greengrocer pushed my hand back.
"Don't need it. It's a gift for your new job."
"Oh, I couldn't possibly accept this."
"Everybody here owed that woman. If you've taken over for her, that's good enough."
The fishmonger threw in a bag of salmon trimmings on his own initiative.
"Make the dog some broth out of it."
On the way home, my arms were full of bags. It wasn't as though I'd done anything. This town was just paying back what it owed Tomi.
In that case, now it's my turn to pay it back. I'll make something and bring it over.
Komugi, maybe thinking all this was his doing, walked with his chest puffed out.
Miso soup loaded with ingredients, simmering away. Tofu, wakame, root vegetables, fried tofu. Steam wavered up in the still-dim kitchen. I grilled the salmon until it was golden, rolled a dashi omelet, and cooked the rice.
At my feet, Komugi let out a soft whine and gazed up at me with hopeful eyes.
"This one's yours."
A dog treat with no additives. Sweet potato baked slowly at a low temperature to bring out its natural sweetness. Komugi thumped the floor with his tail and gnawed on it like it was something precious.
One man and one dog, on a quiet morning. Then came the patter of footsteps down the stairs.