In the evening, as I was cleaning up after the party, there was a noise from the front door.
"I'm home!"
It was a familiar voice. Sawako, from next door. Tomi's daughter would drop by like this now and then, treating the place as her childhood home.
"Oh, a cherry-blossom picnic? How lovely. Mom's cherry tree bloomed beautifully again this year, didn't it."
"Sawako. Welcome home. There's actually a little of the lunch left."
"What, really? Oh, how wonderful."
Sawako peered into the tiered lunch box and her eyes went wide.
"...Hold on. Amane, you could open a restaurant with this. It's on a whole different level from what I make."
"No, no, it's just home cooking."
"Whose home, exactly?"
Sawako laughed in exasperation and sat down on the straw mat. It was a caring smile, one she'd inherited from her mother. For a moment, Tomi's face seemed to overlap with hers.
The sun was going down. The cherry blossoms took on the glow of the sunset, shifting from pale pink to a soft orange.
I switched on the light that led into the living room.
"It's getting chilly. How about some warm tea inside?"
"Okay!"
The four of them, Sawako, and Komugi filed into the house. Watching them go, I turned one last time to look back at the cherry tree as it began to darken.
A single petal fluttered down onto my shoulder. I gently picked it up between my fingers and gazed at it.
Next year, too.
I murmured it, and started walking toward the light.
Lively laughter was spilling out from inside the house. Toward those voices, I went home too.
By the time the blossoms had fallen and the cherry tree had turned to leaf, the days were flowing along as usual again.
Nothing special happened at all.
In the morning, I make dashi. I clean, do the laundry, go shopping. I fix the broken fittings, take Komugi for walks, and in the evening I stand in the kitchen. The same ordinary day, over and over.
But now, I can honestly say that's happiness.
That night, it was raining. A soft spring rain.
I was in the kitchen, gently warming dashi. Today's meal was simmered tofu. Slowly, in kombu dashi. Along with clam miso soup, and a dashi omelet. A simple, everyday dinner.
In the living room, Komugi was asleep in his favorite bed, curled up into a ball. Outside the window, the sound of rain went on quietly.
When the clock hands were pointing to a late hour of the night, the front door opened softly.
"...I'm home."
It was a tired voice. Rei. She'd been working overtime, it seemed. The shoulders of her suit were a little wet from the rain.
"Welcome home. That was a long day, wasn't it?"
I called it out from the kitchen.
Rei slipped off her shoes in the entryway with a soft clunk. Then she flopped down onto the living room sofa. The same way she had the night we first met, last spring. But the piercing wariness she'd had back then was gone without a trace.
"...Yeah. Today was a little long."
The same words as that night last year came out on their own.
"For now, shall we eat? Something warm."
I carried the pot of simmered tofu to the table. Steam rose as it bubbled gently. In the kombu dashi, the white tofu swayed.
"...That smells good."
Rei slowly pushed herself up from the sofa. At the sound, Komugi's eyes blinked open. He got up lazily from his bed and plopped his chin onto Rei's feet.
"I'm home, Komugi."
Rei ruffled his golden head.
I rolled up the dashi omelet with my cooking chopsticks. The egg sizzled, and the soft, half-set omelet rose up, quivering. I set it on the table.
Rei dipped the simmered tofu in ponzu and took a bite. From the tofu as it crumbled apart, the savory depth of kombu spread slowly.
You mustn't let it boil. Warm it to just a little over seventy degrees Celsius. That way the tofu doesn't get pocked with holes and stays silky smooth. The glutamic acid in the kombu dashi gently lifts the faint sweetness of the soybeans.
It isn't a flashy flavor. But on a tired night, what sinks in deepest is a quiet dish like this.
"...Haah."
A long breath slipped out of her.
"That hits the spot."
"Shall I bring you some sake?"
"...Can I?"
"On a tiring day, why not."
When I held out a sake cup and the bottle of chilled sake, Rei narrowed her eyes happily. She took a sip. Then she said quietly:
"Coming home here really is a relief."
The sound of the rain tapped gently at the window. I sat across from her, looking at the steaming pot.
Rei brought a slice of the dashi omelet to her mouth. Her chopsticks paused. Just as Mahiru's had, that first night last spring.
"...It hasn't changed, this taste."
"No."
"A whole year, and it hasn't changed at all."
"I make it so that it won't."
Rei smiled softly. Then, wrapping both hands around her sake cup, she said:
"Having even one thing that doesn't change. How much that means. I didn't understand that before."
Only the sound of rain flowed quietly between the two of us. Tracing the rim of her sake cup with her finger, Rei went on quietly.
"...Thank you. Mr. Kashiwagi."
Mr. Kashiwagi. The woman who'd glared at me that first night and said, "Who are you?" had at some point started calling me that. Not "Mr. Manager," and certainly not "you." Just a name. But I felt as though a whole year was packed into it.
I didn't say anything. I just nodded.
There's no need to say the decisive words out loud. You just serve warm food while it's still steaming. That's enough.
The pot of simmered tofu bubbled softly. The sweet smell of the dashi omelet drifted gently up toward the stairs that led to the second floor.
As if drawn by that smell, I thought I heard several sets of footsteps begin pattering about upstairs. —Looks like tonight's going to be a lively one, too.