Takagi Orphanage. A plain, worn-out building standing silently on the edge of the city, forgotten like many of its residents.
Inside, on the far side of the common room, a boy sat quietly, unmoving.
He didn't read, didn't draw, didn't speak.
Just sat.
Staring blankly into space.
His name was Shin.
Five years old. The youngest in the orphanage.And the weirdest.
The older kids whispered about him when the adults weren't looking."That zombie brat...""Is he broken or something?""He doesn't even blink."
His hair hung long over his face, a black curtain he rarely lifted. He never spoke unless ordered, and never reacted to anything unless called for meals or chores.
To most, he was a background object.To the few who paid attention... he was just a quiet anomaly.
That afternoon, the dull clang of the lunch bell echoed through the halls.
One by one, the children shuffled to the cafeteria. Shin, too, stood up slowly—his movements mechanical, almost unnatural. He took his usual seat in the corner, alone and unbothered.
Today's meal was as uninspired as ever:Watery miso soup. Half a bowl of rice. Sliced vegetables that had long since lost their crunch. And one overcooked sausage.
A year ago, the meals had at least tasted decent.But lately, the food was… off. Duller. Less color, less warmth, less life.
Children around him grumbled.
"Again? We just had this yesterday.""Tastes like cardboard.""Did they cut the budget again?"
Shin heard them. But as usual, he didn't respond.He just lifted his spoon and brought the first bite to his mouth.
And paused.
A strange feeling washed over him.
This was food. He knew it was food. He'd eaten this countless times.
But today…
It was awful.
There was something wrong. Something hollow. Like he was chewing on ashes.
He kept eating, but each bite made his stomach twist—not with illness, but with frustration.Like his body remembered something better, even if his mind didn't.
Across the table, the orphanage's dorm manager—a middle-aged woman named Ms. Yamagishi—watched him closely.
After a few more bites, Shin froze.Then, without thinking, he turned his head toward her.
His voice, quiet but clear, broke the silence of the table.
"Hey."
Everyone turned.
The boy who never spoke... had spoken?
"Why are we eating garbage?"
His eyes, usually dull and empty, stared directly into hers. Innocent. Sincere. Not angry, not sarcastic.Just confused.
For a moment, time stopped.
Then—
"W-What did you just say, you little brat!?"
Yamagishi slammed her palm on the table.The other kids recoiled, jaws slack. Even the loudmouths who always teased him had never heard him talk, let alone backtalk.
"No dinner for you tonight. If you're too good for our food, then starve!"
Shin didn't flinch. He didn't protest.
He simply blinked, stood up, and left the table.
Back in his room, Shin sat on his futon.The older kids laughed at him from the hallway, mocking him through the thin walls.
"Look who got himself banned from food.""So much for being the creepy genius.""He's probably crying in there."
But he wasn't.
He wasn't angry.
He wasn't sad.
He just… didn't understand.
His stomach ached—not from hunger, but from the memory of that taste. Or lack of it.Why did it bother him so much today?He'd eaten worse. He'd lived on worse.
He closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.
Sizzling oil.A knife dancing across a chopping board.Flames licking the edges of a pan.A clean, white apron.The scent of spices—unfamiliar yet beloved.
"Not like that. Feel the meat. Don't just cut—understand it.""Again. Until it melts on the tongue.""You won't serve it until it sings."
He didn't know where he was.Didn't know who the voices belonged to.But the rhythm... the taste... the passion...
It belonged to him.
Somewhere, in another time, another life.
The next day, Shin sat again in the common room.
As usual, his posture was still. His eyes unfocused.
But if one looked closely—very closely—they might have noticed something different.
A faint glimmer. A tiny spark in his eyes.
The first sign of a fire waiting to reignite.