I set a clay pot over the flame.
I rinsed some cooked rice in a strainer to wash off the starch. That way, the porridge doesn't turn heavy. It slips smoothly down into the stomach.
I made dashi with kombu and bonito. When small bubbles started rising from the bottom of the pot, I lowered the flame. Let it boil and the broth turns cloudy and harsh. For a clear bowl, you stop just short of a boil.
The pot began to simmer and murmur.
I added shredded chicken thigh and let it go a while. The chicken's collagen and inosinic acid slowly dissolved into the broth. Soft, white steam rose up.
Then I added the rinsed rice. Simmering, simmering. The rice soaked up the dashi and swelled. Once the broth had thickened a little, I drizzled in beaten egg in a thin, trailing stream.
I turned off the flame, put on the lid, and waited just ten-odd seconds. The residual heat set the egg into fluffy curds. Soft-set, at its very best.
Last, a spoonful of grated ginger. Ginger's warmth works on the core of a weakened body. It reaches all the way to the deepest part of a night when you're feeling low.
When I scattered green onion on top, steam drifted softly up. Warm food carries its aroma along with its steam. Probably, the moment someone thinks "that smells good," their heart has already opened just a little.
The living room table, at the foot of the stairs.
I put down a trivet there and set the pot of chicken rice porridge on it. Alongside it, a ceramic spoon and a small dish of pickled plum.
Ms. Makabe didn't come.
If she didn't come, that was fine.
I turned my back and started on the dishes in the sink. I called out lightly, so it would blend in with the sound of the running water.
"Help yourself before it gets cold."
For a while, nothing happened.
Then the stairs creaked.
Messy hair, dark circles under her eyes. A faded sweatshirt and a blanket half sliding off her shoulders. Ms. Makabe, fresh off a deadline, was as ever a wild animal in the worst possible shape.
Seeing her, I didn't change my expression.
"Was it a good deadline?"
"...It was the worst," she said, her voice hoarse. Then she sluggishly sat down at the table and picked up the spoon.
One bite.
The moment she brought it to her mouth, her shoulders jumped.
The ginger-warmed mouthful went down her throat. As if chasing after it, a tear rolled out of her eye.
"...!"
She wiped roughly at her eyes with the back of the hand holding the spoon. But she couldn't keep up. One after another, they kept spilling.
I didn't say anything. I didn't stop washing the dishes, either.
Boiling water beside someone who's crying. Sometimes, that alone works better than any words.
When about half the porridge was gone, Ms. Makabe spoke up quietly.
"...Hey, Mr. Manager."
"Yes."
"I draw my manga under a different name. Anonymous, sort of—I don't put out who's drawing it."
"Is that so."
"So what sells is 'that name.' Not me. —Nobody's ever going to rate anything the real me draws. Probably not ever."
She was poking at a clump of egg with the tip of her spoon.
"I go searching my own name... and even if nine out of ten comments are nice, the last one won't leave my head. When I see someone who debuted when I did going viral, I compare myself without meaning to and wear myself out without meaning to. It's like the number of likes is exactly what I'm worth."
"..."
"It's weird, right? I started because I loved it. Now I don't even know if I ever loved manga."
Little by little, the words spilled out between the wisps of steam from the porridge.
"A girl who debuted when I did messaged me saying she got married. I wrote back congratulations. When I closed my phone, my room was a total mess. When I looked in the mirror, I looked so haggard I was like a different person. And I thought, what am I even doing."
The spoon stopped.
"Since I work from home, there are days I don't talk to anyone at all. Days I don't say a single word out loud. On days like that, when night comes, I can't tell anymore whether I really exist in the world."
I wiped the knife I'd finished washing with a dish towel and slid it into its sheath. Then I sat down across from her.
"Ms. Makabe."
"Yes."
"The things you draw really are reaching people."
Her hand stopped.
"Numbers only count a person once. One is one. But beyond that one, there's someone who read your manga and had a slightly better day because of it. The numbers just can't show you that person's face."
"..."
"Whether you're anonymous or you put your name out there, that doesn't change. What reaches people reaches where it's meant to. It isn't the name that saves people. It's what's inside—what you drew."
She held her breath.
She'd said nobody would ever rate the real her. But that wasn't true. What people valued wasn't the name; it was what was inside. And the one who drew what was inside was none other than the person right in front of me.
"That's all I wanted to say. If it was out of line, please forget it."