On Miracles (2)

A food truck.

It was no place to host the two of them.

Even if it is a holiday, this won't do.

I was just starting to wonder whether I should rent somewhere when the Elder solved the problem for me.

His house, as it turned out.

"Elder, I'll come in."

"You're here? Was the road all right today?"

"Yes. It's the same road I take every day. Haha."

The house was, in a word, immaculate. Furnishings that had shared long years with their owners sat melted into the scenery, and over that, careful hands had left a warmth that made the place feel lived-in and kind.

Very like him. I like it.

Perhaps because both their temperaments were steeped into every corner, the house felt familiar almost at once, even though I was visiting for the first time.

The homeowner himself was the opposite. The whole situation seemed to sit awkwardly on him.

"Still, you know… I should have found some way to refuse back then… I'm sorry."

"Oh, no. Not at all. Don't be."

"…Ahem."

Even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠if he was genuinely sorry, it made no difference to me.

This was my choice.

I had chosen to come here. Unlike my previous life, I had decided to take a step forward. For anyone else, maybe not—but for the Elder, I thought it was all right to carefully put one foot out.

I can't keep shrinking away forever the way I did before, can I?

So I had come. By my own choice. The one who needed to mind the present wasn't him. It was me.

I asked carefully.

"You're all right, aren't you, Elder?"

"Of course I am."

"Then that's a relief."

He offered a few light remarks and guided me inside.

"Is the house worth a look?"

"I could live like this when I'm older and be perfectly happy. Have the two of you lived here since you were young?"

"Heh. We found this place late in life. Truth is, there were long stretches when we couldn't be together when we were young."

"Really? You two seem so snug I can't even picture it."

"We used making a living as the excuse. And still she remembered only me."

"Ah…!"

"I must have been blessed, don't you think?"

"You really must have been."

"Right? I never felt like I did well by her, and somehow she remembered me all the same. Heh."

He gave a clumsy little laugh. My nose prickled for no good reason.

I carefully looked for the person who ought to be here with us.

"By the way—where's Madam?"

"When she ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠heard you were coming she got all busy saying she had to get ready. Ah—here she comes now."

"You're here? The two of you weren't talking behind my back, were you?"

She appeared almost at once and tossed the joke our way.

"Heh. As if."

"Not at all. He was singing your praises the whole time."

"Goodness. What do you mean, Madam? I'm not that old yet. Hoho."

"That's right. Exactly."

"And now it's 'praises,' is it, this man? Honestly, how shameless."

"I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠only thought it was lovely to watch."

"Hoho. You've always had such a pretty way with words."

"Not half as pretty as you, Madam."

"I told you to stop with the Madam. Come on, I'll show you to the kitchen."

She laughed easily and led me toward the kitchen. The Elder watched her go, his eyes gone red enough that tears looked ready to fall at any second.

Just a little longer. Please wait for me.

The moment I stepped into the kitchen, the same careful order filled the space.

I can tell how they live every ordinary day.

There wasn't a single chip on the well-used dishes. How tenderly they must have been handled, how carefully treasured. Years were steeped into them. The room itself was something precious.

"Quiet in here, isn't it?"

"No. I only like it."

"Heh. Like it, do you. Anyway—what are you planning to cook?"

"Nothing grand."

"Modest, aren't you. Just you coming here is grand enough for me."

"Saying that doesn't put anything on the table, does it? Ah—well, not today. I did promise to treat you."

"Heh heh heh."

I had to find a way. A way for both of them to be happy.

And that way is cooking.

What that way looked like in concrete terms—the Elder was curious too. Interest was written all over his face.

"Honestly, I didn't prepare anything spectacular."

"As I said, ramen would be fine with me."

"Come on. Not ramen."

"Hmm? Then what?"

"Do you remember our walks?"

"Our walks? Of course I remember."

Back when we had wandered the neighborhood, he had told me so many stories. Where he had met his wife. How they had lived. Which dishes had brought them happiness. He had recited them as if determined not to miss a single one, as if saying them again would keep them safe.

Among them, one dish had lodged deep in my chest.

"You said that after work, the budae-jjigae Madam cooked for you was that good?"

"Heh. It was. Is that what you're making today?"

"Yes. Could you wait just a moment? I'll have it ready soon."

"…Thank you."

He finally bowed his head deep and left the kitchen.

Budae-jjigae.

It isn't an easy dish to serve older people. It has a way of calling up the lean years of their youth, which makes it a poor choice for hospitality. The dish itself is a problem too.

The ingredients are hard to digest. Sausage and meat both. And as a stew, the seasoning runs strong.

Serving that kind of budae-jjigae meant more care than usual would have to go into it.

Thrrrrrk—

I had ground the meat I prepared in advance until it was fine, then took a knife to it again and scored it further. It was barely holding its shape. The sausage was no exception—cut fine, cut delicate. The ingredients felt as if they were collapsing into something like porridge.

But when had budae-jjigae ever had a fixed form? If it could fill an empty stomach for one meal, that was budae-jjigae.

Glug—

I set the broth I had prepared as a base and laid the ingredients on top. Carefully. Without missing a single grain.

Not a clear broth—thin and soft and slow.

I let the budae-jjigae simmer gently. Time slipped past.

The milky steam of the budae-jjigae tickled my nose.

I set the budae-jjigae on the table, laid out the spoons with care, and placed warm rice beside it. Once the full spread was ready, I called the two of them.

"My goodness. What is this?"

"My special budae-jjigae set."

"Stew? It looks almost like porridge."

"That's why it's special budae-jjigae. You'll like it. And it digests easily."

…And maybe the old memories will come back too?

I swallowed that last line. Even so, the Elder and I understood each other.

"Heh… Thank you. Thank you."

"Please. Compared to everything you've done for me, this is nothing."

"My. I have no idea what you two are talking about, all by yourselves."

"Oh dear. I'm sorry. Then—would you try a bite first?"

"Mmm…"

Hesitation was plain on her face. I understood. A young man who had appeared out of nowhere had set a meal in front of her, and it was budae-jjigae in a form she had never seen. Of course her hand wouldn't go to it easily.

"Just one bite."

"Heh. Look at the care in it. Try one bite first."

"Shall I?"

Only after the Elder's persuasion did she lift the spoon.

Slurp—

Carefully. Slowly.

Her eyes went wide at the first mouthful. That was the beginning. One bite. Two. The spoon kept moving.

In that moment I was sure.

It worked…!

This had worked. The dish had come together quickly, but it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hadn't been lightly prepared. Every ingredient in that budae-jjigae—none of it was something I had simply bought. From the moment I was invited, I had enhanced every single one by hand.

And the recipe? In the apocalypse, I had made do without proper ingredients. I had drawn on everything from that time as fully as I could. The so-called Special Mental Recovery Stew. That was the true identity of the recipe I had made.

In my past life I turned stew into porridge not for digestion, but because good ingredients didn't exist. That made adapting the recipe easier, at least.

The effect of budae-jjigae made that way was certain. Maybe I should call it a side benefit of a recipe built to endure the apocalypse. Exactly as the name said—it was potent for mental health and recovery.

Back then, people were often one step from breaking.

I hadn't expected the techniques and recipes from that life to be used like this. And though this was the first time I was serving such a dish to her, I was quietly confident. This would work.

The result of my prediction made itself known almost at once.

Fwaaah—

Light brushed past her. Light only I could see.

Notifications stacked one after another.

Done.

Even through the deep sense of achievement, I waved my hand.

Ssssss—

The messages faded slowly. Through them I could see the Elder's startled eyes.

"Mmm?"

He's been watching the whole time, so he must have felt it.

It wasn't my imagination. He had sensed it on instinct. That something had changed.

A little later, she set down her bowl and looked at him. Her eyes were clear and bright, nothing like a moment before—and those clear eyes went straight to her long-time love as if the confused days behind her no longer meant a thing.

"Honey, what's the matter with you?"

"Huh? What about me?"

"Why are you making such a sad face? Hmm?"

"W-wha…?"

"Why are you so surprised again? Hmm? Why that sad—no, wait, now why do you look so happy? Dear, are you crying?"

"W-wha… Me? Me crying…"

Perhaps it was that attention. The sincerity in it. It rose up in him all at once.

Drip. Drop.

Before long, the Elder was letting fall the tears he had held back and held back again.

They had been together and yet not together. Present in the same room and yet living in different times.

"Darling…"

Belatedly, she seemed to grasp what had happened to her. Like people meeting again after years of separation, the two of them shared the time of reunion. That time was as long as their love.

Through that long stretch I was briefly forgotten—and I didn't mind.

This is so good.

I ought to call it joy. My cooking had worked. A recipe I had made in my past life to keep from going mad—a dish I had made simply to stay alive—had worked a miracle.

Before being a chef, I was a person. Of course this moment made me happy. Even if it was a manufactured miracle…

It didn't matter.

Sometimes, even a miracle like this—

…isn't it good?