_________________________________
As Shin's final year of elementary school progressed, life continued in quiet rhythm.
Since the joint cooking class, Shizuku Yaegashi had taken a growing interest in Shin. Whenever they crossed paths—whether during shared school events or in the hallway—Shizuku would try to strike up a conversation. Shin, while maintaining his usual distant tone, didn't shy away from her. He entertained her questions politely, often answering with quiet tidbits about food, ingredients, or obscure kitchen trivia.
Kaori and Kouki naturally gravitated toward the interactions, and over time, Shin was quietly accepted as a friend among the trio. Though still somewhat of an enigma to the rest of the class, to these three, Shin became a constant presence—odd but reliable. Unlike others who talked about sports or games, Shin talked about miso aging and the difference between koshihikari and hitomebore rice.
Graduation came quickly.
Shin spent the day in his usual passive manner, expression unreadable even during the group photos. Clutching his diploma, he stood beside Shizuku, Kaori, and Kouki, his face half-hidden by his long hair, his eyes focused somewhere else.
Later that day, the children of Takagi Orphanage were introduced to the families of the three. Surprisingly, the Yaegashi family and the orphanage manager greeted each other with familiarity—the two had known each other in the past. There was a calm but respectful air as the adults conversed, and though little was said, it became clear that Shin's orphanage and Shizuku's family weren't as distant as they had appeared.
Photos were taken. Shin stood alongside the others, blank-faced as always, diploma in hand.
—
A few weeks passed, and summer break came to a quiet close.
When middle school enrollment began, Shin chose the nearest public school without much thought. Prestige or popularity meant little to him—proximity and routine were what mattered.
Meanwhile, Shizuku, Kaori, and Kouki enrolled in a prestigious school, assuming Shin would do the same. When Shizuku learned he had chosen differently, she was quietly disappointed. Kouki, on the other hand, smiled faintly—unconsciously relieved.
At thirteen, Shin entered middle school.
As before, he remained unremarkable to most. His grades were average across the board—except in home economics, where he excelled with quiet mastery. His long hair still covered his eyes, and during his self-introduction, he spoke in a soft monotone before taking his seat and pulling out a thick cookbook.
As other students shared their names and ambitions, Shin quietly read, the hum of introductions passing around him like wind through reeds.
And just like that, the first semester faded away, and summer vacation returned.
__________________
Early morning light spilled over the quiet town. Haru, one of the older orphans, carried a stack of neatly packed bentos into a familiar convenience store.
"Ahh! It's that time again!" the store owner's eyes gleamed as he opened one of the containers. A savory aroma drifted upward, making his stomach growl. "Still looks like it came from a high-end restaurant."
"He added summer pickled vegetables this time," Haru noted, placing the stack neatly on the counter.
This was a tradition now—Shin had taken a part-time contract with the store the previous summer, and they had happily renewed it.
The owner and Haru exchanged a few words, laughing heartily as the morning light spilled across the storefront.
______
Back at Takagi Orphanage, the sun rose gently over the blooming garden. Midmorning, the orphanage manager poured tea for an expected visitor.
The orphanage director, a slim man in his fifties dressed in refined but comfortable clothes, bit into toast topped with Shin's handmade marmalade and egg salad. Beside him sat a pot of freshly steeped tea, its fragrance a blend of mint and lemon balm from Shin's garden.
"The blend's matured since last summer," the director commented, sipping thoughtfully.
"He's been experimenting again," the manager replied with a small smile.
They spoke casually, eventually turning the topic to Shin.
"He's still young," the director mused. "But I believe it's time to prepare a path for him. Perhaps a top culinary academy? I still have connections."
From a nearby hallway, some of the orphans overheard the suggestion. Their faces fell at the thought of Shin leaving.
The manager's eyes remained gentle—but the air in the room shifted. A subtle pressure filled the space, as if the walls themselves leaned in.
The director stiffened, sweat forming on his brow.
"Ah—just a jest, of course," he said quickly. "Naturally, we'll respect Shin-kun's choice entirely. Entirely!"
"Of you course you will do~," the manager said softly, sipping her tea again.
They continued chatting, though the conversation had taken a slightly more cautious tone.
_______
Elsewhere, deep within the quiet forest near town, Shin walked alone.
While the other orphans laughed and played in the distance—catching beetles or climbing trees—Shin stepped silently through shaded underbrush, basket in hand, eyes sharp and steady.
His fingers brushed aside some low-hanging leaves, revealing a cluster of glossy mushrooms near the base of a fallen tree.
"Nameritake," he murmured softly.
He crouched, inspecting them with calm precision. Their color, smell, the slight stickiness on the caps—it matched what he had studied. Carefully, he harvested the fresher ones and placed them into his basket.
"Not as aromatic as shiitake… but great texture when simmered."
A little further, he spotted a patch of hiratake growing along a mossy trunk.
"Grill with soy and butter. Maybe serve with cold somen... mm."
He collected them, hands moving with quiet ritual. Though his face remained expressionless, his thoughts were alive with flavor combinations, preservation methods, and dishes he could test.
Reaching the foot of a pine grove, he paused.
He knew matsutake didn't grow this early. Not in summer. Last year, he had searched in vain, not understanding the mushroom's seasonal behavior.
"…Too early. Still… good soil here. Maybe late September."
He knelt and touched the ground with the back of his hand. Cool. Damp. He smiled faintly to himself—not with his mouth, but with a slow blink and calm breath.
Even if he couldn't find them yet, this place would do later.
As his footsteps faded into the forest—
a faint gleam flickered.
Barely visible beneath the pine's shadow, the soil where his hand had touched shimmered faintly, like dew catching sunlight where there was none.
Then, silently, almost reverently—
tiny white buds broke the surface.
Matsutake.
They pushed through slowly, as if waking from a long sleep, called forth not by season, but by the brief contact with Shin.
But Shin was already gone, his basket half-filled and thoughts drifting elsewhere.
Unaware that something had just answered.
__________________________
Shin returned to the orphanage just before lunchtime, a basket of freshly foraged mushrooms cradled in his arms. The forest trek had been fruitful—even if the elusive matsutake still remained out of reach. He quietly entered through the back and handed the basket to Akiha in the kitchen.
"For dinner," he said simply, and Akiha gave a nod of understanding, already inspecting the contents with a sparkle in her eyes.
In the dining hall, the orphanage director was still present, seated casually and sipping tea. It seemed he'd decided to stay for lunch.
Without a word, Shin rolled up his sleeves and joined the kitchen staff, preparing the midday meal for the residents. Today's menu was a variety of familiar comfort dishes—katsudon, oyakodon, and gyūdon. Simple rice bowls, yet well-loved staples that filled the air with a savory sweetness.
By noon, the dining room was lively with chatter and clinking utensils.
Even the self-proclaimed gourmet director couldn't help but indulge, wiping his bowl clean without leaving a single grain behind.
"Commoners' food, huh…" he muttered under his breath with a reluctant grin. "Why does it taste like something served at a ryōtei?"
The children laughed. Shin, as usual, said nothing—only quietly gathered empty bowls as lunch ended.
The afternoon was spent in peaceful rhythm. The younger orphans, full and energetic, tugged at Shin until he joined them outside. He played tag, watered the garden, and fixed a leaning trellis by the tomatoes without complaint.
Eventually, the director stood to leave, brushing off invisible dust from his jacket.
"I had plans tonight," he said with a regretful glance at the house. "A shame—I was hoping to see what dinner would've been like."
The manager only raised an eyebrow.
"Your loss," she said, and the director could only laugh as he took his leave.
Evening came with the sun low on the horizon.
In the kitchen, Shin quietly took out the mushrooms he had gathered and the finely wrapped ingredients the director had left behind as a parting gift—thinly sliced beef, fresh greens, and delicate noodles. It was a luxurious set clearly intended for sukiyaki.
Rather than use it alone or save it, Shin placed it at the center of dinner for everyone.
In a large pot, simmering gently in the middle of the dining table, the sweet aroma of soy, mirin, and sugar danced through the room. The orphans, wide-eyed at the rare meal, took careful scoops and dipped ingredients in egg with childlike joy.
Everyone ate well.
Later that night, after dishes were cleaned and the last bath taken, Shin returned to his bed. The day had been quiet, steady—filled with food, forest air, and the warm noise of the only home he knew.
He closed his eyes, breath soft.
Sleep came easily.
________________________________
Shin hazily opened his eyes.
A familiar sensation—faint and unreachable—lingered in the back of his mind. He couldn't name it, yet it pulled at him like the memory of a dream.
He found himself floating.
There was no ground beneath him, no sky above—only a vast, endless void. Around him drifted countless shards of broken mirrors, suspended in silence like fragments of frozen time.
But something was different from the last time he came here.
The corrupted shards—dark, writhing, and sickened—were gone. Only two familiar fragments floated near him now. One was nearly twice the size of the other, its edges glowing faintly with a steady, pulsing light. The smaller one shimmered with a dimmer glow, quiet and restrained.
Then he saw it.
In front of him stood a mirror frame—empty, blank. Unlike the jagged shards, this frame was whole, yet it bore no reflection. Its design was simple, almost humble, but adorned with a golden-silver hue. Lining its sides were unknown gemstones, each embedded like silent stars, gleaming with a dim, otherworldly light.
Compelled, Shin reached toward it.
The moment his fingers brushed the edge of the frame, a low resonance echoed through the void. The surrounding shards trembled, vibrating in response. A silent ripple passed through the empty space.
The largest shard began to drift closer, trailed by two others. They hovered near the frame, responding to its call.
Within their surfaces, faint images stirred.
In the largest—just barely visible—was the ghostly outline of a kitchen knife, blurred as if seen through rippling water. The second and third shards remained obscured, their surfaces veiled in mist and silence.
Shin reached for the largest.
It slipped away.
He tried the second. Again, it moved just out of reach, repelled by some unseen force.
Then, the third shard—smaller than the others, faintly glowing with a dull green hue—gently floated toward him. Unlike the others, it came to rest just above his outstretched hand.
It didn't reflect anything. No image, no shape. Only a soft, pale light pulsing quietly within.
He attempted to grasp it.
It paused… then followed the others, slipping from his touch.
But instead of disappearing into the void, all three shards began to orbit the empty frame. Slowly, silently, they revolved around it—like moons caught in the pull of a waiting world.
Shin watched, unsure whether he felt disappointment or understanding.
His vision blurred.
A wave of dizziness overtook him. His arms slackened, and the weight of sleep returned to his limbs.
As the frame continued to resonate with the gentle shimmer of orbiting fragments, Shin's consciousness quietly drifted back into slumber.