Page 14 of A Serving of Hope

Shiori stepped inside and sat on the sofa.

“It’s a bit of a hassle, but could you fill this out?” Koishi handed her a form on a gray clipboard, on which Shiori scribbled her address, name, occupation, and date of birth.

“So you’re originally from Murakami, but these days you’re based in Yoyogi?”

“That’s right, I’ve been in Tokyo for two years now. Murakami feels further and further away with every passing day.”

Seeing the faint sadness that crossed Shiori’s face, Koishi felt a twinge of envy. Born and raised in the city of Kyoto, she’d never had a rural hometown to pine for. Every year, her classmates would return from their summer holidays brimming with tales of rural adventures and eccentric grandparents—experiences she’d never known, and could only yearn for.

“So, what are you looking for?”

Shiori paused briefly before answering. “Onigiri.”

“Onigiri? As in…a rice ball?” Koishi realized how idiotic her question sounded, but Shiori took it in stride.

“That’s the one.”

“Hmm. Dad always says simple dishes are the hardest to get right.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Oh, not at all,” said Koishi with a playful grin. “He likes a challenge.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Koishi flipped open her notebook. “So, tell me all about it. When and where did you eat this onigiri, and what was in it?”

“It was the summer I turned twenty, so just over four years ago now.” Shiori paused and let out a soft sigh. “After high school I took a job at a local beauty salon. The owner would sometimes take me out for dinner once we’d closed up. One night we went to Bettei Haguroan, a well-known local restaurant, and I happened to get talking to one of the apprentice chefs. We started seeing each other not long after that.”

“May I ask his name?” asked Koishi, her pen at the ready.

“Yasuhiko Ono.”

“And how old was he?”

“A year older than me,” replied Shiori, lowering her gaze.

“And…he made the onigiri?”

“Yes. We’d been together for over a year at the time.”

“And where did you eat it?”

“In Murakami, there’s this park with a funny name: Salmon Park. It was summer—the night of Tanabata, in fact—and we’d met up after work.” A flush spread across Shiori’s cheeks.

“A late-night date on Tanabata?” said Koishi, her eyes sparkling. “How romantic.”

“He’d asked to talk. Said he had something important to tell me.”

“Ooh. Don’t tell me he proposed.”

“The opposite. He said we shouldn’t see each other for a while.”

“Oh…had he fallen for someone else?”

“No, nothing like that. He said he wanted to focus on his training. That once he’d become a fully fledged chef we could be together properly. It would take him about four years. He wanted to know if I’d wait.”

“Four years? That’s a big ask. Not sure I’d have the patience.”