Page 8 of A Serving of Hope

“Here we go,” said Nagare, arriving with two bowls on a tray.

“We’ll talk more when you’re done,” said Koishi as she set a Mashiko teapot and Tobe teacup down on the table before heading for the kitchen.

“The pickles are nozawana. Otherwise, it’s just the miso soup and rice. Enjoy,” Nagare said, before he, too, disappeared behind the curtain again.

Left alone, Kenichi drew a quiet breath, then removed the lid from the soup bowl.

Once the steam had cleared, he reached for the chopsticks and gently stirred the soup. It was exactly how he remembered.

He lifted a slice of thinly cut potato. It was so soft it was on the verge of falling apart, and the instant it touched his tongue it seemed to melt. Its earthy sweetness was balanced beautifully by the savory miso flavor that had permeated it.

At the bottom of the bowl, he could see thin, translucent slices of onion. These, too, had been cooked right through, and practically dissolved in his mouth.

He lifted the bowl and sipped the broth.

“This is it,” he said, the words slipping almost unconsciously from his lips.

The miso was neither too harsh nor too sweet. Its soft, rounded flavor spread gently from his tongue to his throat, then settled in his stomach.

Now his eyes fell on the mound of rice in the indigo-patterned bowl. Taking a strip of the pickled nozawana, he curled it around the white grains and brought them to his mouth.

Memories were beginning to stir inside him. He lifted the soup bowl once more and inhaled the steam. It was the exact aroma that had filled his nostrils on those bleary school mornings.

He reached for more slices of potato and onion, laying them gently on his tongue before sipping the broth. After doing this a few times, he reached for the rice bowl and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, tipped its remaining contents into the miso soup.

He gave the bowl a quick stir, raised it to his lips, and began slurping down the mixture of rice and soup, guiding the larger ingredients into his mouth with the chopsticks. In almost no time at all, the bowl was empty.

“How was it?” asked Nagare, returning from the kitchen with the tray.

“That was it, all right,” replied Kenichi, still cupping the bowl in both hands. “My memories are still hazy, so it’s hard to be certain, but something tells me that was the exact soup I had that day.”

“Can I get you some more?”

“No, thank you. I’m full—and I don’t just mean my stomach. I feel like I have plenty to think about.”

“Glad to hear it. I’ll bring you a cup of hojicha.”

“How did you . . ?” Kenichi called after him.

“I’ll let Koishi explain that part,” replied Nagare with a grin before disappearing through the curtain. Moments later, his daughter appeared in his place.

“I’m glad we got it right,” she said.

“Thank you. You’re the one who cracked the case, then?”

“Mind if I sit?”

“Please.”

“I was expecting a challenge,” she said, joining him at the table, “but when I got to Obuse it turned out to be easier than I expected.” She angled her tablet toward him and showed him a photo.

“Is that the community hall?”

“That’s the one,” Koishi replied. “Volunteers run an event there twice a week called the Silver Diner. A sort of lunch program for senior citizens. And the miso soup there is in serious demand.”

“Wait. Is my mother the one making it?”

“That’s right. They told me Hanae Yoshizawa was in charge of the miso soup.”