That night, Rei left food on her plate. It was the first time since she'd come to Nightlight.
It had started, apparently, with a single phone call.
I found out about it that evening. Rei, back from work, had crouched down in the hallway before she even took off her shoes. Hugging her tote bag on her knees, she was staring at her phone screen.
"Welcome home."
Even when I spoke to her, she didn't look up.
"...I'm home."
The voice that came back wasn't her usual rapid-fire polite speech. It was much smaller, as if the core had been pulled out of it.
I didn't ask anything. On nights when someone doesn't want to be asked, not asking is best. I just went back to the kitchen and watched the flame.
Rei is a strong person.
A chief at an ad agency, and an art director. Someone who led her team, wrangled impossible schedules, and turned clients' "something's not quite right" into actual work by staying up all night. Of everyone at Nightlight, her armor was the thickest.
That armor went as thin as paper at one single point.
In front of her mother.
However perfect someone might be out in the world, at home there can be a knot that won't come loose. For Rei, that knot was her mother.
Wiping teacups, I listened toward the hallway. After a while, Rei's stifled voice reached me in broken pieces.
"...Mm. I'm sorry. It was my fault... No, I'll do better. I'll do better, so..."
She was apologizing. Without even knowing what for. Just apologizing, over and over.
There was no trace of her usual rapid-fire polite speech. It was the voice of a small child begging the person on the other end of the line for forgiveness.
I turned the flame down a little.
If you let it boil, dashi turns cloudy. People's hearts are probably the same. You pull back the heat before it boils. You stop it just short of boiling.
The menu that night was yellowtail simmered with daikon.
It was getting colder, so something slow-simmered seemed right. I'd parboiled the daikon in the water from rinsing rice to take out its bitterness. I'd blanched the yellowtail trimmings to get rid of the fishy smell. From the bones and skin, gelatin and savoriness melted gently into the broth.
When it comes to caring for someone in winter, nothing beats a dish that takes effort. Food simmered for a long time tells the person eating it, "I was waiting for you."
The daikon was soaked through with broth. When you put your chopsticks to it, it split cleanly, and steam rose from the cut face.
The usual Rei would ask me to warm her a flask of sake to go with this. But that night, I didn't bring out the sake cup.
"...Let's eat."
Saying that, Rei picked up her chopsticks, brought one bite of daikon to her mouth, and then simply stopped. She had the look of someone chewing who couldn't swallow.
"It's delicious. It really is. But... I'm sorry. I can't get it down today."
The hand that set down her chopsticks was trembling slightly.
"I'm sorry. After you went to the trouble of making it."
"It's all right."
I gently drew the plate back.
"It's not something you should force down. I'll wrap it up and keep it. It'll taste better tomorrow anyway, once the flavor's soaked in."
"...Tomorrow."
Rei repeated the word with empty eyes. She had the look of someone who didn't want tomorrow to come.
It was Mahiru who told me what was going on.
After her bath, she slipped into the kitchen and told me in a hushed voice. Since she was on the same floor as Rei, she'd overheard the phone call through the wall.
"Rei's mother... she's coming here tomorrow."
"Coming here."
"To take her back home. Rei kept apologizing on the phone. 'It was my fault,' 'I'll do better.' Over and over and over."
Mahiru knitted her brows as if it were happening to her.
"Rei's so good at her job. But only when she's on the phone, it's like she turns into someone else. Like she turns into a little kid."
I stopped wiping the teacup.
The people who never show a gap out in the world are often the ones whose one knot stays tight for decades. A thread tied in childhood can't be undone by your own fingers, even once you're grown.
"Thank you, Mahiru. For telling me."
"Um... Mr. Manager."
Mahiru looked up at me anxiously.
"Is Rei going to get taken away?"
I smiled just a little.
"That's for Rei to decide. It isn't something anyone else gets to decide for her."
After the night had grown late and the house had gone quiet.
I boiled water in the clay pot.
Not something to bubble away, just something to warm. The gentlest thing for a night when the stomach is weak. I beat one egg and let it trickle softly into the broth. A silky egg rice porridge. The rice soft, the salt kept very light.
A worn-out body won't accept strong flavors. So I let the savoriness of the dashi alone fill it.
Steam drifted up.
Bringing that smell with me, I set a small tray in the corner of the upstairs hallway, in front of Rei's door. A bowl of rice porridge, a ceramic spoon, and a single pickled plum. That was all.
I didn't knock. I didn't call out. I just said one thing toward the light leaking through the gap under the door, in a voice that could barely be heard.
"...You don't have to push yourself. Not here."
The light didn't go out.
After a while, from the other side of the door, came the faint sound of someone picking up the bowl. Once I was sure of it, I went back downstairs.
The quiet tap of a spoon against a bowl leaked thinly through the gap where the light came out. Only the smell of the dashi still lingered faintly in the hallway.
Tomorrow, that woman would come to this house. That it would mark the start of a night longer than I'd imagined, for me as well—at the time, I didn't yet know.