Chapter 2 - A Place at Her Table
The scent of curry drifted through the narrow hallway before Takumi even stepped fully inside. It was gentle, not overpowering—spiced with subtlety and warmth, like the person who made it.
The door shut quietly behind him, and for a moment, he simply stood there, unsure where to place his hands, unsure where to place himself.
"You can leave your shoes there," Saeko said, turning toward the small kitchen area.
She was already moving with practiced ease, tying back her hair and ladling curry into bowls. "Make yourself comfortable. It's nothing fancy, I promise."
Takumi nodded and slowly slipped off his shoes, aligning them beside the welcome mat. Her apartment was a mirror of his own in layout but not in feeling.
The floor was clean, and a pale rug softened the space beneath the low table. A small bookshelf stood against one wall, half-filled with paperbacks and cookbooks. On the window ledge sat a potted plant—healthy, thriving, alive.
He hovered near the doorway, hesitant. Saeko noticed and smiled over her shoulder. "You can sit, you know. I don't bite."
He nodded again and moved slowly toward the table, sitting seiza-style as if unsure what posture would offend the least.
His eyes flicked toward the bowl she placed before him. White rice, golden-brown curry rich with potatoes, carrots, and tender pieces of chicken. A small salad on the side. Miso soup in a red-lacquered bowl.
She sat across from him, folding her hands politely before picking up her spoon. "Itadakimasu."
Takumi repeated the phrase more quietly. His hands were cold.
The first bite was hot, a little sweet, and deeply comforting. The warmth filled not just his stomach but the hollow place in his chest he rarely acknowledged. He ate slowly, deliberately, trying not to appear as ravenous as he felt.
Saeko didn't push him to talk. She made small, soft remarks as they ate. About the weather, the train delays, the way the autumn wind always made her crave curry. Her voice was like her food—comforting, unpretentious, familiar.
It was a long while before Takumi said anything.
"Thank you," he murmured, spoon paused halfway to his mouth. "For this."
Saeko looked at him gently. "You don't have to thank me every time, you know."
"But I do," he said. "Nobody… does this. Not for me."
She tilted her head slightly. "Then maybe they should have."
Silence fell again, not uncomfortable but careful, as if both were stepping into something fragile and new.
After dinner, she poured hot tea into two cups and brought a small tray of store-bought manju. The heater hummed quietly in the background as wind pressed against the balcony doors.
Takumi's posture relaxed almost imperceptibly, his shoulders lowering from where they always seemed to live—tense and close to his ears.
"Do you live alone?" he asked, surprising even himself.
Saeko nodded. "Yes. For a few years now."
He hesitated. "You're… not married?"
A soft laugh. Not bitter, not sad. "Divorced, actually. About three years ago. No children."
"I see," Takumi said, then added quickly, "Sorry. That's not my business to ask something like that..."
"It's okay." She sipped her tea.
"It's not a secret. Life happens. People change. Sometimes they just don't fit anymore, and pretending they do starts to hurt more than being alone."
He nodded slowly, understanding more than he cared to admit.
"What about you?" she asked. "Your family?"
He looked down at his tea, fingers tightening around the cup.
"No contact," he said simply.
She didn't ask more. He was grateful.
...
Over the next few weeks, dinners together became a quiet tradition. Not every night—sometimes only once or twice a week—but enough that Takumi started to look for the soft light spilling from beneath her door as he climbed the stairs.
Enough that she began to learn how he liked his rice slightly firm and that he, without realizing, picked out the onions in miso soup.
They didn't talk about their pasts. Not directly. But in the way they spoke about small things—the way she mentioned a recipe her mother used to make, the way he noticed he never used the word "home"—they built something tentative between them. Not love. Not yet. But a fragile intimacy born of mutual loneliness.
She called him by name easily now. "Takumi, can you help me with the soy sauce?"
"Takumi, this might be too spicy, so tell me the truth." He still hesitated every time before saying hers.
Saeko.
It felt strange on his tongue. Too soft. Too personal.
Yet he found himself saying it once, late one evening, after they had finished eating and she'd offered him a second cup of tea.
"Saeko… why me?"
She looked up from rinsing the bowls in the sink. "Hmm?"
"Why are you so kind to me?"
She turned off the tap, dried her hands, and came to sit across from him again.
"Because," she said after a pause, "when I saw you that first morning, you looked like I used to."
He didn't ask what she meant. He didn't need to.
On a quiet Sunday morning, she knocked on his door for the first time.
"Would you like to come with me to the supermarket?" she asked, smiling.
"I need to buy some things, and it's always easier with two hands."
Takumi blinked. "I… sure. Let me just grab my wallet."
It was the first time he went out with someone without an appointment or necessity. Just to go. Just because.
They walked side by side beneath a sky heavy with clouds, talking about brands of soy sauce and debating the best instant coffee. Saeko showed him how to pick fresh tofu. He reached for the higher shelf when she couldn't.
At the register, she slipped a bag of his favorite melon bread into her basket without asking. He saw it but said nothing.
They walked back carrying bags in quiet harmony. When they reached their floor, she looked at him sideways.
"I'm making nikujaga tonight," she said. "Still in?"
He smiled faintly. "If you'll have me."
She nodded. "Always."
...
That night, after dinner, as he helped dry the dishes, she turned to him.
"You've been smiling more lately," she said.
He looked surprised.
"Really?"
She nodded. "Not much. Just enough to notice."
He looked down at the dish towel in his hands.
"I guess… it's easier here."
She didn't press further. She didn't need to.
Later, as he lay on his futon in his own apartment, staring at the ceiling again, he thought about the way her kitchen smelled of broth and ginger.
He thought about how she hummed faintly while cooking and how she didn't flinch when silence stretched between them.
For the first time in years, he didn't feel like a burden in someone else's space.
He felt like maybe—just maybe—he belonged somewhere.
And that somewhere might just be the apartment next to his.