The night wind swept gently across the sleepy northeastern port city of Tōhoku, carrying with it the scent of salt and pine.
Nestled in a quiet part of town, far from the bustling harborfront, stood an inn — a traditional Japanese-style building exuding serenity and warmth. Its wooden beams glowed golden beneath lantern light. Sliding paper doors revealed tatami-matted rooms, alcoves adorned with seasonal ikebana arrangements, and scrolls bearing elegant calligraphy. For travelers weary from their journeys, it was more than lodging — it was a place of comfort and reprieve.
Within this timeless retreat, steam from private hot baths coiled upward into the night. Laughter and the soft rustle of yukata-clad guests floated through the hallways. It was a place for healing, for reflection — and for coming home.
This inn, lovingly maintained through generations, was Megumi Tadokoro's hometown sanctuary.
Out in the garden under the moonlight, a mature woman stood alone, sipping from a lacquered teacup as she gazed at the koi pond. She wore a deep blue kimono embroidered with delicate chrysanthemums, her hair tied back with a simple clasp. Her face, though marked by time, still held the grace and gentleness of youth.
Her eyes, warm and expressive, watched the moonlight dance on the water's surface.
"Megumi…" she murmured softly, her breath fogging slightly in the cool air. "I wonder how you're doing at Totsuki… You must be working so hard."
She took another sip of tea, letting the warmth spread through her chest, comforting yet bittersweet.
Just then, a familiar voice broke through the stillness.
"Mom… I'm back!"
The woman turned, the cup nearly slipping from her fingers. Her heart skipped. That voice—
"Megumi?!"
Her daughter stood at the edge of the veranda, suitcase in hand, smiling tearfully. The two women rushed to each other and embraced beneath the moonlight, the garden watching silently as warmth returned to a mother's heart.
The Next Morning
In contrast to that serene night, morning in the tavern was brisk and chilly.
Zane stirred awake in his room, blinking groggily at the light filtering through the paper windows. The events of the night before still lingered like a half-remembered dream — Megumi's return, the cool air, the scent of jasmine…
After stretching and freshening up, he made his way downstairs. Though the tavern was under renovation due to the second upgrade, the kitchen and most basic facilities remained accessible — just not open to the public.
But when he entered the kitchen, he froze mid-step.
Standing at the stove, dressed in a crisp white chef's uniform, was Erina Nakiri. The morning sun streaming through the window seemed to frame her like a scene from a painting. Her golden hair was tied up neatly, her slender frame poised with practiced elegance.
She was utterly radiant — as if made for this place.
"Zane," she greeted softly without turning. "You're up. How did you sleep?"
He cleared his throat, regaining composure. "Not bad. But… what are you doing in the kitchen this early? Shouldn't you be resting?"
She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder, her cheeks tinged faintly pink.
"I… I wanted to make you breakfast," she said. "Myself."
Zane blinked, watching her resume cooking. Her hands moved gracefully, but he noticed the subtle trembling in her fingertips.
This wasn't just about breakfast.
This was something personal.
Udon — simple, hearty, comforting. But in Erina's hands, it became an art.
As the kitchen filled with the quiet sounds of boiling water and the faint aroma of dashi stock, Erina worked in silence. One burner was used for the noodles — thick strands of udon, glistening white — while the other simmered a mixture of lightly salted okra and delicate egg yolks, carefully cooked to a semi-solid state.
She strained each ingredient meticulously, then assembled the dish: steaming noodles in a lacquered bowl, topped with soft okra and golden egg, and finally drizzled with a clear dipping sauce rich in umami.
A humble dish, yet executed with divine precision.
Zane stepped closer, observing quietly.
Looking at the noodles — about 4.8 millimeters thick, smooth as porcelain, firm yet supple — he could already tell this was far from ordinary.
The clear broth seemed simple, but his nose detected complexity: a blend of dried bonito, sardines, mackerel, and kelp, layered perfectly into one fragrant whole.
"Is this breakfast?" he asked with a lopsided grin.
Erina turned to him, trying to maintain composure. "I was going to make pancakes or sandwiches… something more Western. But the ingredients here weren't ideal. So, I went with udon."
She fiddled with her fingers, clearly nervous.
Zane smiled, his tone teasing. "You made breakfast. People would kill for this."
Her gaze snapped up, a glimmer of pride flashing in her eyes. "Of course! Many people dream of tasting my food."
"There's that famous Erina confidence," Zane chuckled.
"Hey! Don't tease me right after I made you food!" she huffed, slapping the table lightly with her palm.
Zane laughed again but quickly picked up the chopsticks. "Alright, alright. Time to eat this before it gets soggy."
The moment the noodles touched his tongue, Zane closed his eyes.
Perfect chewiness — firm, smooth, and just the right elasticity. The dipping sauce struck a delicate balance of deep umami with a clean finish. The seafood base, brewed to perfection, left a lingering sweetness on the palate.
He took a second bite. Then a third.
This wasn't just breakfast — it was a revelation.
A simple bowl of udon elevated to gourmet status. Minimal ingredients, maximum flavor. A triumph of technique and restraint.
He glanced at Erina, who watched him with bated breath, her hands folded under her chin.
For all her usual aloofness, she looked like a student waiting for her teacher's praise.
Zane set the bowl down. "Erina… this is incredible."
She blinked, uncertain. "Really?"
"I rarely get to eat your cooking, so this… it means a lot."
"I just threw something together," she said quickly, eyes darting away. "Didn't think you'd like something so plain."
"Simple doesn't mean dull. You poured your heart into it. I can taste that."
Her cheeks flushed again, and a small, genuine smile crept across her lips.
Zane continued eating, but his mind wandered.
Erina's cooking had always been exquisite — sophisticated, elegant, with ingredients most chefs could only dream of using. But there was a distance to it, like watching a goddess prepare a feast for herself rather than for others.
This bowl of udon felt different.
For the first time, she cooked not to impress, not to prove, but to connect.
She considered what Zane would like. What would comfort him.
That, more than any ingredient or technique, was the true essence of a great chef.
Perhaps it was love — or something close to it — that guided her hand.
He looked at her again, at the softness in her gaze, the vulnerability in her posture. She wasn't the Ice Queen of Totsuki right now. She was just Erina — a girl cooking breakfast for someone she cared about.
And in that moment, she had never looked more beautiful.