Chapter Text
Snow falls softly on the path ahead, enveloping the trees in white against the pale sky. The branches of the pines sag under the weight of the fresh snow, their needles barely visible beneath the thick feathery layers. The air is crisp and still, filled with the faint scent of cedar. Animal tracks crisscross the narrow path, tiny paw prints and deer hooves, brief stories pressed into the icy earth.
The edge of Shinobu’s sleeves brush snow off the pine branches she passes. She walks with quiet grace, her small body wrapped in a dark plum colored kimono layered for winter warmth. The fabric is patterned subtly with falling leaves and stitched with silver thread near the hem. Her hair is tied neatly at the back, pinned in place with a simple lacquer comb, though a few strands escape and cling to her cheeks with the damp touch of snow. Her sandals crunch lightly on the frozen path. Against the blandness of the snow, she is a quiet burst of color.
Beside her, her boyfriend Giyuu walks in silence, his presence steady and composed like a shadow moving through snowfall. He’s always quiet, always careful not to disturb the air too much, as if even sound might weigh too heavily on the world. He’s wrapped in his signature checkered haori, one side a deep sea green and the other a dark crimson layered over a thick kimono suited for the cold. Snow clings to the broad shoulders of his coat and dusts the ends of his dark hair. His sleeves are tucked neatly over gloved hands. There is a stillness to him that feels both solemn and comforting, like the calm eye of a winter storm.
“It’s cold,” she says, smiling a little. “I should have brought a scarf.”
He hums a soft sound. She’s not sure if it’s agreement or just acknowledgment. He walks with his hands tucked into his sleeves, head slightly bowed, dark hair already dusted with white.
“I suppose you don’t feel it?” she teases.
“I do,” he says. “I just don’t complain all the time like a certain someone.”
“You really do enjoy suffering in silence, don’t you?”
He doesn’t answer but his lips press together as if he’s holding something back, probably a retort and if she’s lucky, a rare smile. She tilts her head towards him, eyes narrowing playfully, studying the subtle tension in his expression. His gaze flickers toward her then quickly away as though even that brief glance might betray too much of his emotions.
“It’s a long way back to the manor,” she says casually. “We’ll be walking for a while.”
He doesn’t reply. Snow crunches beneath their feet in a steady rhythm, the only sound filling the quiet woods.
Shinobu watches as Giyuu keeps his gaze forward, his expression unreadable as though he’s folded himself neatly into the hush of the landscape. She sighs but she’s not frustrated, just used to this by now but still slightly amused by how determined he is to remain a fortress of stillness.
“Let’s make conversation,” she suggests, spelling it out for him because he’s a stranger to subtlety. “You know,” she says, brushing her hands together for warmth, “weather like this always reminds me of when I was little. Kanae and I used to eat mochi on the roof in winter until our fingers went numb.” Shinobu smiles faintly at the memory.
A sudden gust of wind dances through the trees, shaking loose a flurry of snow from a branch above. The powder drifts down between them like ash from the pale sky, landing on her sleeves and her hair. It doesn’t scare her.
“We weren’t supposed to, of course,” she continues, her voice quiet, almost lost to the hush of snowfall. “The roof tiles were slippery and the rice cakes were warmed just enough so the red bean paste steamed when we broke them open. We’d sit with our legs dangling over the edge, watching the snow drift down over the garden lanterns.”
She exhales, watching her breath rise up like smoke. Her smile grows wistful as she remembers the frozen garden below their feet, dim and serene and the distant murmur of the village beyond muffled by snow. Even though the warmth of those stolen moments were fragile and fleeting, they’re still etched deep in her heart.
“Kanae always said mochi tastes better when your hands are freezing.” Shinobu glances at her hands now, pale and red from the cold, tucked into her sleeves. “I’d tell her that doesn’t make any sense but she’d just laugh.” “I still think about it sometimes, us up on the roof. It felt like nothing bad could reach us up there.”
She falls silent, the weight of her eventual death settling gently over her like the snow on their shoulders. She glances sideways towards her boyfriend to make sure he’s still listening.
“Did you have any memories like that? Something simple but comforting?”
His eyes remain fixed ahead but there’s a pause in his step, a slight shift like the question really has him thinking. When he finally looks at her, eyes dark and unreadable, she sees something flicker in his expression like vulnerability.
“What should I say?” He hesitates.
“Anything.”
“Anything?”
They walk a few more steps until the path curves unexpectedly and leads into a shady narrow trail. The new path is flanked by taller trees dusted heavily with snow. She realizes this is a route she’s never taken before, one that seems quieter and more hidden from the world but he moves forward without hesitation, his steps sure and steady like he knows every turn by heart. She falls into step behind him, trusting him completely.
“When I was very young,” he begins, “my older sister used to make okayu for me.”
“Tsutako.” Shinobu remembers her name even though he rarely mentions her.
“Yes,” he confirms with a nod. “Rice porridge.”
The way Giyuu leads her though the without doubt makes her wonder if this new route mirrors the journey he’s about to take her on, a step down memory lane with stories usually kept tucked away.
“It’s my favorite comfort food,” he continues. “Tsutako would ass salted plum and a little soy sauce, sometimes shredded nori on top. We didn’t always have it but when we did, it tasted like…” He pauses. “…like home. I remember it was always after I got sick. She’d sit beside me and feed me spoon by spoon.”
“You don’t even like plums.” Shinobu makes a face but he continues undisturbed.
“Tsutako had a kind voice even when she was tired. I remember lying under the blankets feverish and delirious and then hearing the pot on the stove. I always knew I’d feel better once I smelled the fresh scent of steamed rice and dashi.”
The untouched snow along the edges of the path glistens faintly. In this stillness, Shinobu senses the quiet courage it takes for him to share pieces of his past. Her breath forms small clouds in the cold air, mingling with the soft fall of snowflakes as she follows, always ready to listen.
“One winter,” he says with a faraway look in his eyes. “I had a bad fever. I don’t remember much, only flashes of the snow outside and my cold bedroom. I only remember my sister sitting at the foot of my bed humming. I can’t even recall the song but I remember the sound of her voice, soft and calming. I think that’s the last winter we had together.”
His eyes scan the path ahead as if his memories live somewhere among the trees. He stops walking. Shinobu stops too. He stops walking. Shinobu stops too. When he decides to speak again, the warmth of his voice is gone.
“We must hurry,” he changes the subject casually. “The sun’s about to go down.”
“She must have loved you very much,” she says gently.
He says nothing, just nods. She misses the way his voice changed when he spoke about his late sister. She wishes they hadn’t been interrupted. She feels something tight in her chest, a familiar ache that comes with loss.
They begin to walk again slowly.
“You never told me that before,” she says after she notices the way his hands have disappeared deeper into his sleeves.
“I don’t tell many people but I trust you.”
“I’m honored then.” Her heart gives a small jump. “You say such dangerous things so plainly,” she adds under her breath.
She looks away quickly, pretending to examine a clump of snow on a bush, though her eyes don’t really focus on it. Her cheeks feel warmer than they should in the cold, the tips of her ears tingling beneath the falling snow.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She smiles to herself. “You should make that okayu again sometime.”
“For what?” He looks puzzled.
It’s strange how someone so gentle, so softly spoken could have a deeper impact on her than any grand confession. Her fingers fidget inside her sleeves, brushing together for warmth or maybe just to steady her fluttering nerves.
“For yourself.” She dares not look at him yet, afraid that if she does, he’ll see too much of her plans written across her face. “Maybe for someone else,” she adds to lessen his suspicions. “You never know who might need a little warmth.”
“I remember the recipe. Mostly.”
“Good. You can teach me.” She folds her arms behind her back again. “I’ll want the nori just as you described it, maybe even the plum.”
They fall into a quiet and comfortable silence again, the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled. She listens to the crunch of their steps as the clockwork inside her head begins to turn.
It’s a simple dish: rice, broth, plum, seaweed but in his voice, it had sounded like something sacred, something warm and fragile held together by only memory and love. Now, a part of that memory belongs to her too. She will put this information to good use. She pictures herself waking early on a snow covered morning, slipping into the kitchen before the others arise. She would serve the dish quickly while the broth is still steaming and the rice is simmering gently.
Up ahead, the outline of the Butterfly Manor begins to emerge through the trees, the garden lanterns flickering warmly against the approaching dusk. Smoke curls from the kitchen chimney, probably Aoi Kanzaki cooking up dinner.
“Home at last.” Shinobu is surprised they made it.
Giyuu glances at the gate but doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he stops beside her, taking in the view of her home with a quiet and thoughtful gaze. The wind carries the distant sound of someone chopping something indoors.
“You have snow in your hair,” he says after a moment, his tone as neutral as ever.
“A bit too late to tell me, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t mind it.” He looks like he doesn’t want this walk to end.
Shinobu is still thinking about the food and how her boyfriend would react. Maybe Giyuu wouldn’t say much and he’d just eat in silence. Maybe he’d love her forever. She doesn’t need to tell him now. Some surprises are best saved for snowier days.
“Was that a compliment?” She turns to him, hands on her hips now, lips curling upward.
“Maybe.”
“Careful,” she teases. “Say too many nice things and I might start thinking you like me.”
“Would that be so surprising?”
He looks at her then, really looks. Snowflakes cling to the ends of his hair and his lashes. He watches the way her breath catches in her throat just for a moment.
They reach the gate and she places a hand on the wooden post. The snow continues to fall, soft and unhurried. She doesn’t want this walk to be over either.
“Thank you for walking me back and for telling me about the okayu.”
“Thank you for listening.” He nods, almost solemn.
She steps through the gate and pauses, glancing over her shoulder. The snow is still falling in a hush around him. He hasn’t moved, standing just outside the boundary of the manor, half in shadow beneath the trees and half caught in the soft lantern light spilling from the courtyard.
“Don’t disappear before you teach me that recipe.”
His expression is calm as always but his eyes follow her, steady and unreadable like he’s holding something back again, not words this time but maybe a feeling he doesn’t know how to name. The distance between them feels too wide, even though it’s only a few steps.
“I think your sister would be happy.” She holds his gaze for a moment longer than she should.
“What do you mean?”
“She’d be happy you remembered her warmth.” She gives him a small nod and a quiet smile, the kind she doesn’t wear often. “Goodbye.” Shinobu turns and walks up the path toward the manor entrance, each step muffled by snow. Behind her, she can still feel his presence like a warmth at her back, even though she’s left him far behind. Though she doesn’t look back again, she knows he’s watching until the moment the door closes behind her.
-
Dinner is quiet the next day. Shinobu sits with her back straight, chopsticks poised delicately between her fingers. A pot of barley rice still steams softly on the low table in front of her, each grain plump and pearly just the way she likes it. Beside it, thin slices of simmered daikon sit in a shallow pool of dashi and soy sauce, translucent and glistening in the broth, garnished with sesame seeds and finely chopped spring onions. The meal may be modest but she knows it’s been prepared with care.
Across from Shinobu is Kanao Kocho who eats without a sound, her posture upright and movements graceful like a doll. She wears a soft lavender kimono with a simple white sash tied neatly around her waist, the fabric plain but elegant, perfect for the manor’s quiet evenings. Her dark hair is tied into its usual side ponytail with a butterfly clip. She doesn’t look up often but her eyes do occasionally flicker toward her older sister.
Beside her, Aoi Kanzaki chews a mouthful of rice, a little more brisk with her movements. Her navy blue kimono sleeves are tied back with a white cord since she’s only recently finished work in the kitchen. A few strands of hair have slipped from her pinned bun, clinging to her cheek as she inhales her food. Outside, the snow continues to fall.
“It’s awfully quiet tonight.” Shinobu sets down her chopsticks, glancing around awkwardly.
Aoi swallows and then answers, “The little ones went to bed early. Sumi had a cough so Kiyo and Naho tucked her in. I think the cold wore them all out.”
Shinobu nods. Their illness reminds her a lot of the childhood memory her boyfriend shared a day earlier. She folds her hands in her hands in her lap, smiling at the memory. Kanao notices but doesn’t comment.
“I see,” Shinobu says finally. “Strange. The table feels much larger without their chatter.”
“They’ll be loud again by morning,” Aoi says dryly but there’s a fondness in her tone.
Kanao, still silent, reaches for a piece of pickled radish, her eyes flicking up toward her sisters just for a moment. The quiet stretches comfortably. The clink of porcelain and the soft rustle of sleeves is the only sound for a while.
“I want to make okayu.” Shinobu says suddenly.
“Porridge?” Aoi looks up like there’s another type of okayu
“Yes and with umeboshi, a bit of soy sauce and nori on top.”
Shinobu’s voice may be calm but there’s a quiet certainty behind it, like the idea has already taken root inside her brain and won’t let go. The steam from the rice curls up between them soft and slow, blurring the space just slightly.
“Sumi isn’t that sick,” Aoi adds quickly. “I can assure you we’ve already given her medicine.”
“No,” Shinobu replies lightly. “It’s not for her, not this time.”
Aoi waits, curious. Kanao also watches her sister closely, sensing the weight behind her casual tone but Shinobu refuses to elaborate further. She brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear, not meeting their eyes right away, her gaze drifting to the small flame flickering in fireplace.
“It’s a memory someone shared from a long time ago,” she says finally. “His late sister used to make it for him when he was sick as a child. He remembers it so clearly: the scent, the texture, even the sound of her voice while she spoon fed him.” She can almost hear Giyuu’s voice again, low and steady as he spoke of a warmth long gone, of a sister whose absence is still felt through the simplest of meals.
That memory sits at their table too now, quiet and invisible. Kanao also doesn’t speak and her chopsticks remain untouched in her hand. Outside, the wind presses gently against the wooden doors.
“You can say Tomioka,” Kanao guesses. She’s always been good at reading people
“Correct,” Shinobu continues as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I want to try and make it. Just to recreate those tender moments even if only approximately. It might be a small thing but I think… I think it would mean something.”
“Hmm.” Aoi leans back slightly, arms crossed. “You don’t know how to cook.”
Shinobu lets out a soft sigh, her fingers curling slightly around the edge of the table. Aoi isn’t wrong though she Shinobu knows it. She hasn’t truly cooked since Kanae’s hands guided hers in the kitchen and even then she mostly watched. Precise as Shinobu is with medicines, knives and poisons, she can never get cooking right.
“You don’t know how to teach,” she snaps. “What do you mean just eyeball the salt? How many tablespoons?” She notices the way Aoi’s eyes widen and immediately apologizes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so upset. I’m frustrated with my lack of skills more than anyone else.”
“Probably zero,” Kanao says suddenly.
“What?”
Shinobu sighs again. Something about cooking makes her feel so vulnerable but then she reminds herself it’s just rice, just water and patience, not a delicate antidote or a complex incision. Just something warm. If it’s made with care, if she can carry even a fraction of what Giyuu’s sister gave him then maybe that’s enough.
“Salt,” Kanao interrupts her train of thoughts. “Tablespoons is too much for one person.”
“I really am serious about learning,” her sister says, almost surprised by how firmly the words come out. “I want to study it, start from the basics and try to understand the heart of it.”
“You want to make it for him.”
Shinobu doesn’t deny it. She only nods.
Aoi pushes herself up from the table with a small grunt and walks toward the pantry, her sleeves swinging at her sides. The wooden floor creaks under her steps. She slides the wooden door open and leans inside, casually shifting jars and baskets around. The only sound that fills the quiet room is the soft clink of glass and rustle of dried herbs.
Shinobu watches her, hands resting in her lap, thumbs fidgeting against each other. It feels strange to be on this side of the learning table, the uncertain and expectant one. She’s used to instructing others, not asking for help. A bowl of rice porridge should be simple and yet the weight of wanting to get it right for someone else makes it feel suddenly fragile.
Kanao doesn’t say anything either. She returns to her meal, picking up a slice of eggplant and eating it with the same quiet rhythm as before.
“We still have plums in the pantry,” Aoi says without looking back, “Short grain rice too.”
“Seaweed?” Shinobu wants to know.
“Yes but not much.”
Aoi steps back out and places a small sack of white rice on the edge of the table. It’s more packaging and less actual food. Shinobu reaches for it, running her fingers over the cloth drawstring, as if that alone will help her learn.
“Just don’t burn the pot,” Aoi warns. “I’m not scrubbing it.”
“I can,” Kanao offers with her mouth full.
“I don’t need a lot,” Shinobu tries not to sound too defensive. “Just enough for a few tries.”
Kanao continues to eat, pretending not to pay attention but there’s a faint curve to her mouth now, just the barest ghost of a smile. Her sister finds herself smiling too.
They finish their meal slowly, the quiet between them now more friendly. The clink of chopsticks against ceramic is the only sound, interrupted occasionally by the soft murmur of the wind outside. Kanao finishes her food first, placing her chopsticks neatly across her empty rice bowl before standing to collect the dishes. Aoi moves to help but Shinobu is already rising with her.
“I’ll wash everything tonight,” she offers, gathering the bowls. “You should rest. You’ve been up since before sunrise.”
“But—” Aoi opens her mouth to argue but she knows she’s right. She lets out a short sigh and shrugs instead. “All right but over scrub the daikon plates again. They’ll chip.”
“I won’t.” She watches as Aoi stretches once and then head off toward the hallway with a wave.
The kitchen grows quieter once she’s gone. Kanao lingers at the table, not quite moving to leave. Her fingers trace the rim of her tea cup.
Shinobu stands at the basin once she’s done collecting the dishes. She dips each bowl into the warm water, scrubbing gently with a cloth, mindful not to let the glaze crack or the corners chip like Aoi warned her. The rhythm is soothing: dip, scrub, rinse, stack, an old routine she hasn’t done herself in a long time. Her fingers, usually skilled with surgical tools and medicine are slower here but she doesn’t mind.
“Kanao.” Shinobu glances over her shoulder as she rinses the bowls. “You can head to bed too if you’re tired.”
“I’ll stay.” Kanao shakes her head.
She doesn’t say more than that but Shinobu doesn’t need her to. The water runs warm over her fingers and in the back of her mind, she begins to think about soaking the rice overnight.
“Do you remember the last time I cooked something?” Shinobu says suddenly.
Kanao rises without a word and walks over to the basin, her soft steps barely audible against the splashing of water. In her hands, she carries the small porcelain teacup her sister had forgotten on the table. She sets it gently beside the others. Shinobu glances down at it and then at Kanao.
“Not really,” Kanao offers a faint smile. She just stands beside her now, close enough that their shoulders almost touch.
“Neither do I,” Shinobu says with a laugh. “Kanae did most of it. I only helped when she forced me to. She said my knife skills were impressive but my seasoning was tragic. She always made the kitchen feel like a warm place, not just because of the stove but because she was there.”
“She’d be happy to see you try.”
Shinobu’s gaze drifts to the fireplace nearby where the flame glows a steady flickering orange. She feels the warmth on her hands and then somewhere deeper.
-
Snow still clings to the corners of the windowsill by the time Shinobu wakes up the next day. The warmth from the small brazier in the corner does little to chase off the sharp chill of winter but the many layers of her blanket do help.
She sits propped up on her bed with her knees drawn close, her back resting against the wall. She wears a simple cotton sleep robe, soft and faded from many winters of use. The pale lavender fabric is lined lightly with flannel on the inside, tied loosely at the waist with a thin sash. The sleeves are long and slightly oversized, falling past her wrists as she folds her hands over her knees. Her hair, usually neatly tied is slightly tousled from sleep.
On her lap is a folded sheet of paper, creased once horizontally, the ink bleeding in with careful strokes. She runs a thumb along the fold before opening it. Giyuu’s handwriting is neater than she expected, though slightly uneven like someone not used to writing but trying his best to make it legible anyway. The page smells faintly of pine like it had been written outdoors. She wonders why he slipped it through her doors in the middle of the night without even saying hello before she begins to read it silently,
Rinse ½ cup short grain rice until the water runs clear. Combine with 3 cups water in a small pot. Bring to a boil and then lower to a gentle simmer. Stir occasionally to prevent sticking. Cook until the grains are soft and the mixture thickens to a soft soupy texture. Add salt and soy sauce to taste. Serve warm and topped with pickled plums and seaweed.
She stares at the paper for a long moment after finishing it, her brow slowly knitting together. That’s it? She brings the paper closer to her face, squinting at the lines as if more information might reveal itself between them nut no, it still says add salt and soy sauce to taste like that means anything to someone who’s never successfully cooked before. Then there’s the pickled plum: no measurement, just “plums.” One? Two? Should it be mashed into the porridge or left whole? Is it meant to be more of a garnish or part of the flavor? The same goes for the seaweed. How many strips? Torn how finely?
She’s spent her entire life with the precision of medicines and poisons, where a fraction too much could mean everything and kill someone. She has no instinct for the vague.
She shifts under her blanket. It’s not that she minds doing the work but these recipes are always so vague, passed down like rumors rather than instructions. They’re never made with beginners in mind. She imagines a child trying to make okayu from this paper and ending up with a pot of burnt mush and disappointment. Would that child feel comforted or just a little more alone?
-
The kitchen at the Butterfly Mansion is warmer than usual, the stone floors already swept clean and the wide counter space cleared in anticipation. Warm afternoon light filters in through the high windows. It’s quiet, save for the noise of Shinobu’s racing heart. A small basket of dried plums rests on the table and beside it, a folded cloth holds a few crisp sheets of seaweed.
Aoi wears a practical indigo apron tied neatly around her waist, layered over a plain gray kimono with her sleeves pinned up. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun. She stands by the shelf where the condiments are kept, checking labels and measuring spoons with the calm efficiency of someone who has done this every day for years. Kanao stands by the sink, her dark uniform replaced with a light green kimono patterned with small white leaves. Her hair is braided and slung over one shoulder.
Shinobu stands in the center of it all, feeling out of place. She wears a pale cream apron over her usual lilac. Her brow is furrowed in concentration as she pours half a cup of rice into a bowl, watching it tumble in with a soft rustle.
“Rinse until clear,” she recites to herself, turning to the nearby wash basin. The rice swirls in the water, cloudy at first and then less so with each rinse.
“You don’t have to talk to yourself out loud,” Aoi says, watching carefully.
“I do when no one else is giving me instructions.”
She repeats the washing process several times, her fingers already numb from the cold but she doesn’t stop. She wonders if she’s doing something wrong and as if on cue, Aoi clears her throat. The girls have been strictly instructed not to intervene but they’re allowed to offer advice.
“Actually,” she offers, “you should allow some starch to stay to maintain its stickiness.”
“Don’t be silly,” Shinobu dismisses her. “This is rice, not starch.”
“What do you think starch is?”
Shinobu stops to think. She stares down at the water, now mostly clear. Why wasn’t this mentioned in the recipe? There was no ingredient called starch mentioned there. Giyuu had written rinse until the water runs clear and that’s exactly what she’s doing.
“You’re doing fine,” Kanao offers. “I’m sure the difference is negligible.”
“What are you talking about? I haven’t added any starch yet.”
“It’s already in the rice,” Aoi explains with great patience.
Oh.
Shinobu’s already rinsed it all away but now Aoi is saying that the starch matters, that it’s part of what gives the porridge its softness and texture. Maybe she should’ve allowed them to intervene after all.
“Then why rinse it at all?” Shinobu’s frustration bubbles just beneath her calm expression.
“You’ll only want to remove the impurities.”
She glances down at the rice in the pot as if it might offer her an answer. Cooking, she’s realizing, is far less exact than she prefers. Medicine obeys measurements. Chemistry obeys ratios but this feels more like a hostage situation.
“Recipes should just say that.” She stops washing the rice. “How is anyone supposed to know the perfect time to stop?”
“Now you know how the rest of us feel when reading your medical instructions.” Kanao tilts her head slightly from her place beside the sink, watching her sister with something close to sympathy. Shinobu can almost hear her thinking she’s pathetic.
She narrows her eyes, trying her best to seem unbothered. She continues following the recipe and adds the rice to a small pot. Why must the pot be small? Why not a large pot? She carefully pours in three cups of water, just as the recipe said. She makes sure not even a single drop is misplaced.
Aoi leans over to peer into the pot. Shinobu moves to shoo her away but she insists she’s only watching, not interfering. Kanao moves to take a peek too.
“You know,” Aoi says casually, “you can use a bigger pot. The rice won’t get offended.”
“The instructions say small pot. I’m following it exactly.”
“Is this about precision or superstition?”
Shinobu exhales slowly, resisting the sharp reply that rises to her tongue. Her grip tightens slightly on the wooden spoon but she reminds herself they’re not mocking her. They just don’t understand how important this feels.
“It’s about not ruining someone’s childhood memory,” Shinobu replies curtly.
This isn’t just a bowl of porridge to her. It’s an attempt to step into someone else’s memory, to hold something fragile and wordless between her hands and get it right. So instead of snapping, she stirs the rice once more with care and says nothing more, letting the soft bubbling of the water to do the answering for her.
“Then maybe you should hum while it cooks too,” Kanao suggests. Shinobu blinks at her. “You said she used to hum,” Kanao reminds her. “His sister.”
“I don’t know the tune.” Shinobu stirs the pot once.
“Make one up,” Kanao offers simply like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Shinobu doesn’t answer. The kitchen is too quiet, save for the bubbling broth and the faint rattle of her spoon touching the sides of the pot. She grips the spoon tighter, watching the rice bubble and swirl chaotically in the simmering liquid. It even smells wrong, nothing like what a beloved memory should smell like but she keeps going anyway. Stopping now would mean giving up and she never gives up.
“Now the real test,” Aoi says, leaning back against the counter. “Don’t let it stick.”
“I’m aware.”
She narrows her eyes, clearly annoyed. Shinobu notices the look but turns her head downwards to the rice, pretending not to see. She focuses on the steam rising from the pot, on the sound of boiling water, on anything else other than the proof of disappointing someone else. Her pride won’t let her react.
“We should leave her alone,” Kanao offers. “My sister focuses better without distractions.”
Shinobu isn’t sure if that’s true but she’s grateful for the help anyway. Aoi doesn't look convinced but after a moment, she pushes off the counter with a sigh. Shinobu hears the soft shuffle of Kanao’s footsteps and the heavier, more reluctant ones from Aoi as they begin to leave.
“Fine,” Aoi mutters right before she steps out the kitchen. “Burn it if you want.”
The door creaks as they leave. Silence settles over the kitchen again, heavier this time. Shinobu stares down at the pot. This is her battlefield now.
She thinks about Giyuu, how rarely he talks and how much he holds on to. She glances down at the paper Giyuu had given her, now smoothed flat beside a container of sea salt.
“Add salt and soy sauce to taste,” she says under her breath, as if repeating it will make it clearer.
“Start small.” She can hear the Aoi inside her head say. “You can always add more but you can’t take it out.”
Shinobu picks up the tiny porcelain spoon and sprinkles in a modest pinch of salt, followed by a careful dash of soy sauce. The scent changes immediately, warm and savory. It tugs at something in her chest she hadn’t prepared for. She notices the grains are soft now, the mixture thickening into something that looks more like rice porridge. She wonders if she should add more.