The next morning, I set out with Yoshi-san to gather wild mountain vegetables for both the morning and evening meals.

The mountains were already awake with early summer green. Among the plants I recognized were butterbur, bamboo shoots, wild raspberries, and shiso leaves.

Familiar things, like fragments of another life. But there were also plants I had never seen before.

Uwamizusō, yamamomo, yamagurawa, yabukanzo… Names spoken gently, as if they had always belonged to this land. As if I had merely not known them yet.

We gathered what we could that day, most of it bamboo shoots and butterbur. Yoshi-san allowed me to take a little more than necessary, saying it would be fine for experimentation in the shop.

Her generosity made even excess feel permissible.

After breakfast, we prepared the shop.

Today was the day I would test whether what I had in mind—these small acts of service—would be understood in this time.

It reminded me strangely of preparing for a presentation at work. That quiet tension before stepping forward.

I exhaled slowly, trying to steady myself.

Then a hand gently tapped my back.

"Yoshi-san?"

"Let's do our best today."

"...Yes. I look forward to working with you."

With that single gesture, the tightness in my chest loosened.

As though I had been permitted to breathe again.

Before long, the first customer arrived.

"Welcome, Yasu-san."

He sat at his usual place and ordered yuzuke.

To him, I offered a cold wet towel and a cup of chilled water.

"Thank you for your hard work. Please feel free to use this to wipe your hands. And this is water for you."

"...What is this? Oshi...bori? And I didn't ask for water."

"It's a service," I replied.

A word that did not yet belong to this time. He tilted his head in confusion.

Ah—of course. That concept itself did not exist yet. I quickly corrected myself.

"Please think of it as something free of charge. You may use the towel as you like."

At that, his expression softened.

"...Well then, I'll accept it gratefully."

He took the towel first. The moment it touched his hands, a quiet sound of appreciation escaped him.

"Ohh... this is nice. It's so cold... it feels good."

He even wiped his face, as though surrendering to the comfort of it. It was a familiar sight—something I had seen countless times in another world.

And yet, here, it felt strangely new.

He then drank the water in large gulps, as if something in him had been loosened.

"Ahh~! That hits the spot!"

The sound reminded me faintly of someone drinking beer after work. Without thinking, I refilled his cup.

"...Water never tasted like this before," he murmured.

"It's so cold... it's almost strange how good it is."

Of course it is, I thought.

The well is shaded by trees. Even in summer, it draws up cold water. Yoshi-san's land has always been like that.

Quietly generous.

He finished two bowls of yuzuke and drank four cups of water before returning to work.

Yoshi-san eventually had to stop him, laughing. I agreed with her without hesitation.

Still, he left in good spirits.

"That was refreshing—I'll come again," he said.

When the shop quieted, I felt something small and warm settle in my chest.

After closing, there was still one more thing I wanted to do. When I told Yoshi-san I would prepare dinner, she allowed it without hesitation.

I wanted to see if what I made could become part of the shop's offerings.

In this time, seasonings were limited—miso, salt, vinegar, sake, chili pepper. Soy sauce did not yet exist.

And there was no sake in this kitchen.

I laid out the bamboo shoots and butterbur we had gathered that morning.

First, the butterbur. I blanched it carefully, remembering how my grandmother once taught me. Salt, pressure, boiling water, then cooling—each step gentle, almost ritualistic. When I peeled away the skin, the stems revealed themselves like something newly born.

I thanked the memory of her quietly. It had not faded after all.

The bamboo shoots had already been prepared by Yoshi-san in the morning. All that remained was to cook.

I found myself hesitating. I had intended to make something simple—something close to yuzuke. But the moment I saw the bamboo shoots, a different thought surfaced.

Bamboo shoot rice.

Something I simply... wanted to eat.

So I decided. Just this once, I would follow that desire.

I sliced the bamboo shoots into bite-sized pieces. Mixed brown rice with miso and water. Then laid the bamboo shoots gently on top and let it cook.

While it steamed, I prepared the butterbur. Chili pepper, miso, finely chopped and stirred together. Then I heated it in a pot until the moisture disappeared.

A butterbur chili miso paste. Something simple, but strong in aroma. It filled the room slowly, steadily.

When Yoshi-san returned, she paused at the doorway.

"Oh... that miso smell."

She set down the laundry in her hands and sat near the hearth.

I lifted the lid of the pot. Steam rose like a soft breath, carrying the scent of bamboo and miso together.

"Please try the bamboo shoot rice first," I said.

It was something I had made almost selfishly. So I watched her carefully, a little uneasy.

She took a bite. Then lowered her gaze slightly.

For a moment, I could not tell what that silence meant.

But then—

"It's delicious," she said softly.

"Miso and bamboo shoots... I didn't know they could fit rice so well."

Relief came quietly, like something unclenching inside me.

I ate as well. The rice was still hot, steaming gently. Each bite was soft, yet the bamboo shoots gave it a light, crisp texture.

Miso, warm and grounding. It was... comforting.

"Fufu... this is good," I murmured without thinking.

Perhaps this is what people mean by happiness.

Ah—right.

The butterbur miso was still there. Without thinking, I stopped her halfway through eating.

"Please wait a moment."

I mixed a spoonful of the butterbur chili miso into the bamboo shoot rice and poured hot water over it. A simple yuzuke. One I had improvised on impulse.

Something for days when one wished to eat without effort. Yoshi-san followed my example.

The miso richness deepened, but the chili cut through it gently. The butterbur added a faint bitterness, grounding everything.

It was strangely nostalgic. As if it had always existed somewhere in memory.

I glanced at her as she ate.

"It really is delicious," she said again.

"...Though," she added after a pause.

Her voice softened.

"Since these ingredients don't always come every day... it might be difficult to serve this regularly."

I exhaled quietly.

That was true.

And yet—

If something is gone, then perhaps I will simply change what goes into it.

There are always other ways to cook.

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