The warm haze of dinner still lingered in the orphanage as the children finished their meals. The satisfying silence of full bellies soon gave way to cheerful chatter, especially among the older children.
In the kitchen, Shin quietly assisted with cleaning up, working alongside the two middle schooler orphans, Haru and Amaya. With practiced hands, he scrubbed dishes and wiped counters without complaint. He didn't join in the idle talk—just a nod here and there before quietly retreating to his shared room.
Back in his bed, the fatigue of the day caught up to him. His eyelids drooped, and he drifted off, a content hum of exhaustion washing over his small frame.
Meanwhile, in the orphanage office, the manager Yamagishi sat opposite Akiha, the orphanage's cook, sipping lukewarm tea.
"Was there something special in tonight's dinner?" Yamagishi asked, her expression half-curious, half-suspicious. "The kids were unusually quiet while eating... and for once, even the picky eaters finished their plates. Even I couldn't stop myself from going for seconds."
Akiha chuckled, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "Not really. Most of the ingredients were normal. We did find some discounted meat earlier today, but that's about it."
She gestured toward Haru and Amaya, who had joined them. The two nodded in agreement.
"It wasn't anything fancy," Haru added. "But Shin was super focused. He was fast, precise... like he knew exactly what he was doing."
"It almost felt like he had done this for years," Amaya agreed.
Akiha gave a wry grin. "Maybe we're raising a genius chef without knowing it."
Yamagishi sighed deeply, rubbing her temples. **"You think so? Maybe that explains the recent improvements. I remember when he first started helping in the kitchen..."
She trailed off, remembering the boy's first clear words when he arrived at the orphanage—words that had caught her off guard.
"Hey, why are we eating garbage?"
Back then, it had seemed like a childish outburst. Now, it echoed with strange clarity.
"I hate to admit it, but compared to tonight's dinner, everything we've eaten before might as well have been plain slop," Yamagishi muttered, defeated.
"You said it, not me," Akiha said with a teasing grin.
"We were lucky today," Akiha continued, smiling. "There was a slight abundance of ingredients since the budget bounced back a bit. We even managed to snag a few packs of meat on sale. It felt like a feast, but really—it was all normal stuff."
Yamagishi leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. "So you're saying... the difference might actually be Shin?"
"That's what it feels like," Akiha nodded. "Ever since he started helping, the food's been... better. Not just in taste, but feeling too."
That night, Shin tossed lightly in his sleep, eyes flickering beneath closed lids as a dream took hold.
He found himself floating—weightless and alone—in a void of endless darkness.
Surrounding him were fractured mirrors, each reflecting a different version of himself. Some smiled, some cried, others were just empty.
A faint, muffled voice began to call.
"Hey... kid..."
Shin turned slowly. In one of the mirrors, a hazy image began to form. A place he didn't recognize. Unknown faces. A tall old man, face blurred by time, stood before him.
"Listen up, brat! Cooking ain't about throwing crap into a pot and praying for magic! It's about heart! Soul! Balance, flavor, discipline—got it?!"
The voice was rough, almost insulting, yet oddly warm.
Other fragments of that memory returned—lessons about fire control, about seasoning, about how food wasn't just for the body but the heart.
The mirror before him shimmered.
A figure appeared—slim build, black hair, golden eyes, a calm but tired smile. He looked into Shin's eyes from the other side of the mirror.
Shin blinked. The reflection moved when he moved.
Except... it wasn't just a reflection.
The older version reached out, trying to touch him. But the mirror refused to yield, cracked and broken.
"Help me," the reflection finally said, voice strained.
Shin simply stared.
"Manager Yamagishi-san said not to talk to strangers," he muttered.
The reflection chuckled. "I'm not a stranger, kid. I'm you."
Shin tilted his head. "...You look older. And you have black hair and golden eyes. My hair's silver, my eyes are red. And you're tall. Way taller."
The reflection narrowed his eyes. "Different time, different world. That doesn't change who we are inside."
"So you're not me," Shin said blankly.
"No sh—of course I am. Just listen—"
"You have brain issues?" Shin asked, blinking.
The reflection faltered, clearly annoyed. "No! I said I'm you. Literally. The same soul. Different body. Fragmented memories. Get it now?"
Shin floated away slowly, already losing interest.
"Tch—hey, wait! Don't ignore me!"
But Shin was already drifting off, mentally categorizing the mirror-man as a delusional adult.
Behind him, the reflection screamed silently, trapped within the cracks of forgotten memory.
The only answer was the gentle rhythm of Shin's breathing, peaceful and undisturbed.