After work, Ken's legs dragged as he stepped down the alley, the fatigue of a long workday weighing on him like concrete. The sun had just dipped behind the buildings, leaving long shadows across the narrow street. His shoulders slumped and his bag bounced against his side as he moved past the familiar eatery, almost too tired to notice it. A small, cheerful wave caught his eye, and he looked up to see Sachiko smiling warmly from the doorway. He blinked, shook his head slightly, and smiled tiredly.
"Oh hey, what can I help you guys?" he asked as he stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the shop wrapping around him. The aroma of simmering broth and freshly fried tonkatsu filled his senses, instantly lifting a bit of the day's exhaustion.
"Ah, so generous of you," Sachiko said, pointing to a table near the corner. "Here, quick, you can help me give out those dishes to the customer over there?" Ken nodded, setting down his bag. Haruo gave a small approving nod, his eyes calm but sharp, silently acknowledging Ken's presence and readiness.
Ken grabbed the steaming bowls and plates, careful not to let a drop fall. He wove through the small number of customers, placing each dish in front of them with a soft clink. The first customer looked up and smiled, a quiet "thank you" escaping, and Ken felt a flicker of satisfaction. It was a small, mundane thing, but after hours of paperwork and long meetings, it felt meaningful.
Sachiko leaned slightly on the counter, hands resting near the warm dishes. Her voice was soft but carried weight. "Ken, we've been meaning to tell you… about our health. It's not easy for us to manage the shop and everything else these days. I have cancer, and Haruo… his heart isn't what it used to be."
Haruo's voice followed, low and deliberate. "We want to keep the shop going, but our bodies aren't as strong as they used to be. Some days are harder than others."
Ken froze for a moment, his mind pulled back years to the slow, helpless moments at his parents' bedsides. He remembered the quiet hospital rooms, the final breaths, the regrets he carried for what they couldn't do or say. His jaw tightened. Then he exhaled, trying to anchor himself in the present, and offered a thought from that experience. "Maybe you could reach out to a few relatives you've lost touch with. Even a small letter, a short visit… little things that matter. It's something I wish my parents had done, and I've carried it with me ever since."
Sachiko's eyes brightened with curiosity. "Do you really think that could work?"
"Yes," Ken said firmly. "Start small. Invite someone to a meal, write a short note, or make a call. It's better than leaving things unsaid. Little gestures can mean more than we realize."
The customer at the nearby table nudged them, signaling that they were finished. Ken picked up the empty bowls and plates, a steaming bowl of udon, a flat plate of tonkatsu curry, and a few smaller dishes, and handed them carefully to Sachiko. She placed them neatly by the side of the sink and turned back to him with a small, appreciative smile.
"About your ideas… could you help us?" she asked. "We'd like to reconnect with a few family members. Your perspective might really help."
Ken nodded, the weight of his own regrets fresh in his mind. "Start with those you know will respond. Call first, write if you can. Make it easy for them to say yes. And add something personal, a shared memory, a small detail only they would recognize. It matters."
Haruo leaned in slightly, joining the conversation. "That makes sense. I agree with him. Let's try it that way," he said, his eyes locking with Ken's in quiet approval. The corners of Sachiko's mouth lifted in a soft, grateful smile, and Ken felt a warm satisfaction settle in his chest, mingled with a twinge of worry for their health.
After helping them get started, Ken turned toward the counter. "Alright... so I'll take a tonkatsu curry and an udon to go, but no rice this time, please," he said, a faint grin tugging at his tired lips. Sachiko chuckled as she prepared the order, moving with the careful precision of someone used to multitasking despite fatigue.
"You really love that curry," she teased lightly, sliding the containers into a paper bag.
"Yeah," Ken replied, smiling, rubbing his neck, "but I can't let the udon feel left out."
He paid and waved briefly at the couple before stepping out into the alley. The night air brushed gently against his face, carrying faint scents of the city and the lingering warmth of the eatery.
As he walked, he chatted lightly with Yumi, who had just left the shop after ordering her own meal. "See you at the office tomorrow?" Ken asked casually. "Yeah, hopefully not buried under too many papers," she replied with a laugh. Ken grinned, nodding in agreement as he carried the tonkatsu and udon in his hands.