On July nights, the heat of the day is slow to fade. Even with the windows open, all that came in was a lukewarm breeze. Still, once the sun went down, the old Western-style house that was Nightlight grew strangely cool. The craftsmen of the Taisho era, it seems, knew a thing or two about how air moves through a house.
In the manager's room, with the air conditioner on, I was making dashi for tomorrow's prep. The steam rising from the bottom of the pot carried the scent of kombu and bonito.
I kept the flame low enough that the pot just whispered. Let it boil and the broth turns harsh. The kombu comes out just a little before tiny bubbles start lining up around the edge of the water. My hands knew habits like that by now.
At my feet, Komugi was sleeping belly-up, all four legs flung out. His golden belly rose and fell slowly with each breath.
One in the morning. I was about to turn off the flame when my hand paused. From the far end of the living room, around the shared kitchen, came a faint sound.
"...Is someone still up?"
Komugi twitched one ear, then went back to sleep. You can stay asleep, buddy.
I wiped my hands on a cotton towel and quietly headed to the living room.
Yume was slumped over the counter in the shared kitchen. Yume Odagiri. Twenty years old. A student at a fashion vocational school, and the youngest resident at Nightlight.
During the day, she was always stylish. Hair dyed a translucent shade, elaborate nails. She was often holding up her phone, photographing who knew what. Changing angles in front of the potted plant in the living room, taking shot after shot after shot.
But what she had spread across the counter now was scraps of fabric, a tablet screen covered in lines, and a pile of crumpled paper. No makeup, black-rimmed glasses. An oversized sweatshirt, its sleeves pulled down over her palms so only her fingertips showed.
She looked like a different person, I thought. No—this was probably the real her.
I'd seen the face she put on during the day for the camera a few times. Perfectly put together, yet somehow strained. The girl here was what was left after that strain had come undone: just an ordinary twenty-year-old.
"...Excuse me."
When I spoke, Yume jerked her head up.
"Whoa, what?!"
"Sorry for startling you. I saw the light was on."
Yume hurriedly covered the crumpled paper with her hand.
"...It's nothing. My assignment just won't get done, that's all."
The eyes looking up at me were a little red. Behind her glasses, her eyelids were puffy. Maybe she'd been crying. But I kept that to myself.
"And what are you doing at this hour, Mister?"
Mister, she calls me. Rei and Mahiru both call me "Mr. Manager," but Yume had called me "Mister" since the day she moved in. She's wary of me, I figure. A male house manager is someone a young girl would be on guard around for that reason alone.
"Making dashi for tomorrow. I'm about to go to bed."
"Huh."
Yume dropped her gaze back to her assignment. With her fingers, she kept zooming the tablet screen in and out, over and over. Her fingers wouldn't stop. She kept touching the same spot.
Those were the hands of someone who's stuck, I thought.
"Sorry to bother you. Good night."
With that, I went back to the kitchen. Back there, I looked at the pot of dashi. The freshly made broth was still warm. With this, I could make at least one little dish—no.
I opened the refrigerator. Half a loaf of yesterday's bread was left. And some melting cheese that one of the residents had bought and never finished. On the shelf, a jar of honey Sawako had brought over.
Just right.
I cut a slightly thick slice of bread and piled on plenty of cheese. All the way to the edges, no gaps. When it bakes, the bits that spill over the edge and scorch are the best part. Into the toaster it went. The heating elements glowed red, and the inside slowly warmed. The crusts began to color first.
While I waited, I opened the jar of honey. A thread of amber trailed off the spoon. Sawako had left it, saying it came from somewhere near her house. I'd forgotten the name of the flower, but the scent was gentle.
The Maillard reaction, I thought in a corner of my mind. The proteins and sugars on the surface of the bread brown and give off aroma at around a hundred and sixty degrees Celsius. When the fat in the cheese melts and the honey warms, that aroma rises too. That's the theory, anyway. But theory means nothing in the face of the smell of toasting bread.
With a light ding, the inside of the toaster had turned golden. When I opened the door, a toasty smell rushed out along with the heat. Cheese, toasted bread, and beneath them, a rich smell like butter.
The edges were nicely browned, and in the center the cheese was bubbling away. Bubbles slowly burst on the surface. Over that, I drizzled the warmed honey. It gave a small sizzle, and sweet steam rose. The honey, catching the heat, gave off an even stronger, flowery scent. The saltiness of the cheese and the sweetness of the honey. Put salt and sweet side by side, and each brings out the other.
A thin thread of sweet steam drifted toward the living room.
Maybe the smell reached her. At the kitchen counter, the small slumped back seemed to move, just slightly.