Miyazaki Chiaki stood behind the restaurant counter, watching the rainy night through the window. The streetlamps outside flickered in the drizzle, their reflections bleeding across the wet pavement. The paper lanterns swayed gently under the wind, their soft red glow dancing in the dark.
The wooden sign above the door bore the name Miyazaki Tei—three bold, calligraphic strokes her father had carved himself, now weathered by time.
Inside, the restaurant was unnervingly quiet. The only sound came from the kitchen—the soft clink of metal against metal as the chef worked. Miyazaki Tei had once been famous for its traditional teishoku sets: unagi donburi, simmered mackerel, delicate chawanmushi. But lately, even during dinner hours, the tables sat empty.
Tonight, only two regulars had come—neighborhood locals who still ordered the signature saba no miso-ni and praised it with a polite, "The flavor is as good as ever." Yet they left quickly, their footsteps echoing in the hushed space. Chiaki stood motionless behind the counter, her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at the vacant tables.
"Chiaki."
The low voice came from the kitchen doorway. It was Yamada-san, the head chef.
He leaned against the frame, spatula in hand, his expression unreadable. "Business… it's getting harder these days." His tone was weary, the lines around his eyes deeper than before. The white streaks in his hair seemed more pronounced under the dim light.
Chiaki didn't look up, carefully polishing a porcelain bowl. She knew what he meant. Since her father's passing nearly a year ago, the regulars had slowly drifted away, as if forgetting this place existed.
"I know, Yamada-san…" Her voice was soft but firm. "But this restaurant is all I have left of him. I won't give up."
The old chef sighed and stepped closer. *"I understand your loyalty. But sentiment alone won't keep a business running." He hesitated, then added heavily, "In a few months… I may have to retire. My body's not what it used to be."
Her fingers stilled. She knew he was right—twenty years in the kitchen had taken its toll. "If I can't even hold onto this place," she murmured, "how can I face my father?"
Yamada shook his head, his gaze drifting to the worn wooden chair where her father used to sit. "Sometimes,letting go isn't betrayal. You have to think of yourself too."
Chiaki said nothing, silently gathering dishes to carry back to the kitchen. Her eyes skimmed over the menu on the counter—the ink still crisp, the prices unchanged. Yet fewer and fewer customers ever read it.
Outside, the rain grew heavier, blurring the glow of the streetlights. Inside, the warm light of the paper lantern cast Chiaki's slender silhouette against the wall—small, but unwavering.
Ding-ling~
The door chime jingled.
A girl with bleached-blonde hair stepped inside, trailing raindrops and dragging a suitcase behind her.Her ponytail clung wet to her neck.
A soaked white tank top clung to her curves, making her black bra and impressive cleavage impossible to miss. Her generous boobs rose and fell with each breath, straining slightly against the wet fabric.Her tiny shorts were soaked as well, her long legs gleaming under the light.
She looked about twenty—just a year or two older than Chiaki.
Chiaki glanced up from the ledger she'd been tallying, her gaze lingering for half a second on the girl's chest before flicking down at her own. A faint crease formed between her brows, but she smoothed it away just as quickly. "Welcome. Be careful—the floor's slippery."
The girl's eyes lit up when she saw Chiaki. "Whoa—you're the owner? No way! You're so young! And cute!" She grinned, stepping closer as if inspecting some rare specimen.
Chiaki frowned slightly but managed a polite smile. "Can I help you?"
The girl slung her bag off her shoulder,
still beaming. "I saw the sign out front. You're hiring a cook, right? Thought I'd come in and check it out. I'm Rina Sato."
Chiaki's brow arched skeptically. "You're… applying? You don't exactly look like kitchen staff."
Rina's smirk turned challenging. "Relax, I graduated from culinary school. Even worked at a five-star hotel for two years." She crossed her arms. "I know my way around a kitchen."
Chiaki barely suppressed an eye-roll. "A five-star hotel?" Her tone dripped doubt. "This is a small place. We serve traditional washoku. Not some Western fusion spot. You sure you're up for that?"
Rina's grin didn't waver. "Please. I aced Japanese cuisine in school, and the hotel had an authentic washoku counter. I'm not here to mess around."