Mira had always seen Kobayashi as the neighborhood constant.
Gruff. Stubborn. Reliable in a way most people weren't.
He grumbled about delivery trucks blocking the sidewalk and scolded teenagers who talked too loud near his shop. He never smiled unless it was for something ridiculously specific—like a perfectly runny egg yolk or the rare moment someone slurped ramen the "correct" way.
But lately, Mira had started to notice something else.
He was always there.
Always ready with a warm meal. Always knowing when to speak—and more importantly, when not to. He never asked prying questions, never made anyone feel small. And somehow, without ever trying to be, he had become the kind of person people drifted to when they had nowhere else to go.
Elias. Hikari. Even herself.
"Why does he do all this?" she had wondered the night before, lying in the low light of the apartment. "What's his story?"
Kobayashi didn't talk much. But somehow, he always knew what to say when it mattered.
She used to think he was just good at reading people.
Now, she wasn't so sure.
Now, she thought… maybe he had simply been through more than any of them wanted to ask about.
—
Kobayashi unlocked the front shutter just past dawn.
The city was still stretching its limbs—slow buses, vending machines blinking to life, the scent of fresh delivery bread wafting from Moonlight Crumbs across the street.
He could always tell when Elias had been up too early. The air smelled different—like flour and pride and quiet guilt.
Kobayashi tugged the shutter open with one steady pull, the metal rattling up into place. Inside, the ramen shop was still dim, the smell of last night's broth lingering faintly beneath the air freshener he'd wedged behind the register weeks ago.
He turned on the lights, rolled up his sleeves, and began to move.
Rinse the counters. Check the stock. Restock the soft-boiled eggs. Pull the curtain aside.
He didn't rush. He never did. Mornings were for rhythm.
Kobayashi liked mornings.
They were honest.
He worked in silence, save for the occasional slosh of water and the low hum of the radio tucked near the sink. A station that played old city pop from the '80s, mostly. It was background noise, but comforting.
By the time the first regular wandered in—a postal worker with crooked glasses and a standing order for miso ramen with extra bamboo—Kobayashi had already warmed the broth and swept the floor twice.
"Morning," the man muttered, already half-asleep.
Kobayashi only grunted in reply and got to work.
They didn't need words.
That was the thing about his shop.
People came here when they were too tired to pretend.
—
Later, when the lunch rush died down and the seats were empty again, Kobayashi sat on the stool behind the counter with a towel draped over his neck. His hands ached, but it was a familiar ache. The kind that reminded you you'd done something today. The kind that said, You're still here.
He reached for the lukewarm tea on the side counter and took a slow sip, staring through the window at the bakery across the street.
Elias hadn't come out yet.
Which meant he was still brooding over something, or baking through his feelings. Probably both.
Kobayashi snorted under his breath.
That kid carried guilt like it was stitched into his apron.
And then there was Mira.
She had that same weight lately. A kind of restlessness in her eyes, like she was running but didn't know from what.
He'd seen it before. In other faces. In mirrors, even.
She reminded him of someone.
Too young to be so tired.
Too stubborn to let anyone else carry the load.
But last night—last night she'd listened.
Didn't argue. Didn't deflect.
Just sat there quietly, eating katsudon like it might actually make something better.
That was the thing.
Sometimes it did.
Sometimes you didn't need a solution. Just a place to be seen, to be fed, to stop pretending for five minutes.
He watched a couple walk past the window, their hands barely touching.
Then glanced at the counter.
Still clean.
Still warm.
Still ready for the next stray who walked through his door.
Kobayashi sighed, drained the last of his tea, and stood.
There was more work to do.
Always was.
But that was fine.
That was the point.
He didn't run the best ramen shop in Tokyo.
He didn't run the prettiest.
But he kept it open.
And when people needed a place to land, his door was never locked.
Even if no one asked why he kept it that way.