Mother's Cooking

When Shuo Ye pushed open the front door, he smelled fried tofu.

More precisely, it was not just fried tofu. Miso soup, grilled fish, rolled omelet, pickled daikon, stewed potatoes—the smells of a whole houseful of food mingled together, drifting all the way from the kitchen to the entryway.

Something was wrong.

Dinner at home usually never had more than three dishes. His father, Takuma, disliked extravagance, and Shizuka was used to keeping things simple—a bowl of rice, a plate of pickles, a bowl of miso soup, and one seasonal side dish made up their standard dinner.

But the sounds coming from the kitchen today made it clear that things were different.

Shuo Ye changed his shoes in the entryway, set his schoolbag on the rack by the door, and walked inside. A wooden sliding door separated the kitchen from the living room. It was not fully closed, and the steam drifting through the crack had already dampened part of the door.

He slid it open.

His mother, Shizuka, stood with her back to him at the stove. Pots and bowls covered the counter—four pots were being used at once, two simmering, one frying, and one steaming. Half a daikon remained uncut on the chopping board, with a kitchen knife and a bowl of prepared batter beside it.

"Mom."

Shizuka turned around.

She wore a light blue apron, her hair pinned up with a chopstick, exposing her slender neck. Sweat beaded on her forehead, a few loose strands clung to her cheeks, and the steam from the stove had flushed her face.

But she was smiling.

"You're back? Go wash your hands. It'll be ready soon."

Shuo Ye stood in the kitchen doorway without moving.

He counted the dishes on the stove.

Miso soup. Grilled Pacific saury. Fried tofu. Rolled omelet. Pickled daikon. Stewed potatoes. Miso-braised eggplant. White rice. And a small clay pot with its lid half open, soup bubbling inside. It smelled like pork bone broth.

Nine dishes.

Nine dishes.

There were three people in their family, and nine dishes. Three dishes per person on average.

This was not dinner. This was a banquet.

"Mom, why did you make so much?"

Shizuka's knife paused.

Only for a moment. Then she continued slicing the daikon, the rhythm of the knife falling against the cutting board unchanged—tap, tap, tap.

"Because my Shuo Ye has gotten thin lately."

She smiled as she said it. But her eyes did not.

Shuo Ye saw the sheen of moisture in them. It was faint, like a layer of mist over the Naka River. If one did not look closely, it would go completely unnoticed.

But Shuo Ye noticed.

Because he had been watching her the whole time.

One advantage of being a transmigrator was an almost obsessive sensitivity to unusual changes in his surroundings. He had developed the habit in his previous life—in classrooms, on the subway, in crowded places, he would always unconsciously observe the microexpressions and body language of those around him. After transmigrating here, that habit had become instinct.

So he could see the faint sheen at the corners of Shizuka's eyes.

He knew what it was.

It was the expression unique to his mother whenever she was holding back some emotion.

"I'm not thin," Shuo Ye said.

"You are." Shizuka tapped his shoulder with a finger. "Look at those shoulders. Your bones are showing. Is the food at school bad?"

"It's okay."

"What do you mean, okay? Good food is good, bad food is bad."

"It's good."

"Then why have you gotten thin?"

"Training taijutsu."

Shizuka gave a snort, poured the sliced daikon into the nearby pot, and stirred it twice with a wooden spoon. "Even training taijutsu doesn't mean you can skip filling your stomach. Starting tomorrow, take a lunchbox. I'll make you more food."

She was speaking a little faster than usual.

That was her habit whenever she was hiding something. Shuo Ye had noticed it long ago—Shizuka was someone who could not conceal what was on her mind. All her emotions revealed themselves through her speed of speech. When she was happy, she spoke slowly, one word at a time, with a lingering softness at the ends of her sentences; when she was sad, she spoke quickly, without pauses between sentences, as though something would catch up to her if she stopped.

Right now, she was speaking very quickly.

"Mom."

"Hmm?"

"You don't need to make so much today."

"I wanted to."

"It's too much. We can't finish it."

"If we can't finish it, we'll save it for tomorrow."

Shizuka turned and glanced at him. It was a brief look, but in that fleeting moment of eye contact, Shuo Ye saw something—

Shizuka was looking at him.

Not the casual glance of a mother looking at her son. It was an intensely focused, almost greedy gaze, as if she were engraving his face into her memory.

Shuo Ye had seen that look once in his previous life.

It was during the summer vacation of his first year of college, when he returned home. His mother had been standing outside the high-speed rail station, and the instant she saw him emerge from the crowd—

After that summer, he never went home again.

Because that semester, he died.

When dinner was laid out on the low table, the nine dishes filled the entire tabletop.

Takuma sat across from him, looking at the table full of food, his brow twitching slightly. He said nothing, but Shuo Ye noticed that his father's gaze toward Shizuka had changed—from its usual calm gentleness to something deeper.

There was heartache in it.

"What's the occasion today?" Takuma asked.

"It's not any occasion." Shizuka came out of the kitchen carrying the final dish—the pork bone broth—and placed it in the middle of the table. Steam still rose from it. When she lifted the lid of the white porcelain clay pot, the rich scent of bone broth immediately spread through the room.

"I just felt like making it."

Takuma looked at her once and did not press further.

"Let's eat." Shizuka sat down on her knees, picked up a rice paddle, and served Shuo Ye a bowl of rice, then a bowl of miso soup. Then she served Takuma the same portions.

Her own bowl held only half a serving of rice.

"Mom, you're eating too little," Shuo Ye said.

"I'll get more later." Shizuka smiled and shook her head. "You eat first."

Shuo Ye picked up a piece of grilled Pacific saury.

It was very hot. The fish skin had been grilled crisp and sprinkled with fine salt. When he bit into it, there was a crisp crack. The flesh was tender; it had probably just been caught from the Naka River—Shizuka sometimes went fishing by the river. She said it had been a habit since childhood, one she had not changed even after marrying into the Uchiha Clan.

"Is it good?"

"It's good."

"Eat more."

Shizuka placed another piece of fried tofu into his bowl. Then a piece of rolled omelet. Then a spoonful of stewed potatoes.

Shuo Ye's bowl quickly piled up.

"I can serve myself."

"Go ahead, serve yourself," Shizuka said with a smile.

But her chopsticks never stopped. Every few seconds, another dish would be placed into Shuo Ye's bowl.

Takuma ate quietly across from him. He ate slowly, chewing each bite thoroughly. Occasionally, his gaze would leave his bowl to look at Shizuka, then at Shuo Ye, then at Shizuka again.

As if he were confirming something.

Confirming that they were both still there.

Confirming that they were both all right.

Confirming that this meal had not ended yet.

"Takuma," Shizuka suddenly said.

"Mm."

"Your mission tomorrow... can you postpone it for one day?"

Takuma's chopsticks stopped.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Shizuka lowered her head and placed a slice of pickled daikon into her own bowl. "I just... want you to stay home for a day."

She said, "I just."

"I just" was a very ambiguous phrase in Japanese. It could mean "it's nothing important," or it could mean "I have a very serious reason, but I can't say it." It depended on the speaker's tone and the context.

Shizuka's "I just" was the latter.

Shuo Ye lowered his head and shoveled rice into his mouth.

He did not want to look up. Because he did not want to see Takuma's face. He was afraid that if he did, he would find something there that he feared seeing—like Takuma knew too. Like Takuma had noticed something. Like Takuma also—

"Okay."

Takuma said one word.

Shizuka froze slightly, then smiled. The smile was faint, only a slight curve at the corners of her mouth, but the moisture in her eyes finally spilled free as a tear that slid down her cheek.

She quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand.

"Wipe your face. Don't cry while eating," Takuma said. His tone was calm, but something soft was hidden beneath it.

"Who's crying?" Shizuka sniffed. "The cooking smoke is too strong."

Shuo Ye buried his face in his bowl.

The rice had already gone cold. He chewed one bite after another, feeling something lodged in his throat that he could not swallow no matter what.

When dinner was over, Shuo Ye took the initiative to clear the dishes.

Normally, Shizuka did that. But today, he stood and said, "I'll do it," then began carrying the bowls and plates into the kitchen.

Shizuka tried to stop him, but Takuma caught her hand.

"Let him."

Shizuka looked at Takuma and said nothing more.

As Shuo Ye placed the dishes in the sink, he heard low voices coming from the living room. Takuma and Shizuka were speaking in whispers, quiet enough that ordinary people would not have been able to hear them at all.

But Shuo Ye's chakra perception was stronger than an ordinary person's.

He did not hear complete sentences, only fragments.

"...really... can't..."

"I know... but..."

"...the child..."

"...tomorrow... don't leave..."

The dishes clinked crisply in the sink. Shuo Ye placed the last plate down, turned on the faucet, and the rush of water drowned out the indistinct words from the living room.

He did not want to listen anymore.

He already knew.

He knew what would happen tomorrow. He knew what would happen the day after. He knew that three days from now, this kitchen would no longer smell of fried tofu, would no longer hold the warmth of miso soup, would no longer have daikon on the chopping board or a kitchen knife beside it.

Everything would disappear.

And the seven-year-old child washing dishes in this kitchen could not change any of it.

Shuo Ye turned off the faucet, dried his hands, and walked out of the kitchen.

In the living room, Shizuka was already clearing the low table. Takuma stood by the window with his back to them, looking out into the night.

"Mom."

Shizuka raised her head.

"Today's fried tofu was really good."

Shizuka froze for a moment, then smiled. This time, the smile was real—her eyes curved, the corners of her mouth rose naturally, and even the fine lines on her forehead relaxed.

"I'll make it again tomorrow."

"Okay."

When Shuo Ye said "okay," his voice was a little hoarse.

He turned and walked toward his room. When he reached the middle of the hallway, he heard a soft sigh behind him.

It was Shizuka's.

He paused.

Then he kept walking.

At the end of the hallway, moonlight filtered through the paper window into his room. Shuo Ye lay on the bed without taking off his clothes.

He placed a hand over his chest.

His heart was beating fast.

Because he knew—the table full of food his mother had made was not "because Shuo Ye had gotten thin."

It was a farewell meal.

Shizuka might not know what would happen three days later. But she had sensed something. A woman's intuition, a mother's intuition—whatever it was called, that vague premonition that could not be explained by reason had already settled over this family.

She was saying goodbye in the only way she could think of.

By cooking.

By making so, so much food.

Making every dish her son liked, covering an entire table with them, watching him eat them one bite at a time.

That was the limit of what Shizuka could do.

Shuo Ye closed his eyes.

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye, rolled along his temple, and disappeared into his hair.

He did not wipe it away.