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The hotel is quiet.
Only two guests are checked in at the moment; the one with the feather quill head just left to go take a nap after finishing their beef ragu, and the other checked in this morning, so Ruri hasn’t had the chance to meet him yet. She isn’t particularly eager to either—nothing against him of course, but a cook is protected by the kitchen they work in, and most of the guests understand that whatever relationship they have with Ruri ends there. She cooks, they eat, and that’s the end of that.
A glance at the clock tells her that he’s probably still with the Manager, going through his room, eager to find evidence that suggests who he was and how likely it is that he’s alive. In her experience, it’s usually a perfect 50/50 toss up—depressing, but not surprising. The worst part is when the guests figure out the truth and don’t accept it. The manager usually handles it, but still…
Her lips thin into a line as she wipes down the countertop and stares at the watery reflection hidden within.
She can’t forget the guest from last week. He had checked in and gotten his true face weeks before she even arrived, but even after he learned that he was dead, he just…didn’t leave. He spent most of his mornings and afternoons sitting at the bar with Menow-san, stalling for time even when the Manager told him that he would have to leave eventually.
He was in the middle of eating chicken congee when he disappeared. She watched him dissolve, like he was nothing more than tissue paper in the rain. His spoon clattered against the porcelain of the dish, congee splashed onto the tablecloth, and the Manager quietly sighed to himself as he signed the guest out of the guest book manually.
His name had been Kiyohito Takamori. He had come into the hotel with a screw for a head. He had died in a construction accident, falling off one of the iron beams as he was calling his son to tell him he would make it to his baseball game that afternoon.
Ruri would never forget how he just disappeared like that. She knew they weren’t flesh and blood in this hotel, but it felt like they were. They still got tired. They still got hurt. Their chests still moved like they had to breathe, and whenever she accidentally turned the tap water too hot or nicked herself with a knife, she felt the surge of pain in her hands. She had seen guests recall how they died, blood soaking across their clothes and onto the floor and furniture, at least a dozen times by now. Their bodies still acted like bodies, like there were veins and organs, muscles and mucus, inside. Not like they were hollow, not like they were paper dolls with features painted on.
She’s been staring at her reflection for a while.
The kitchen is spotless, and the hotel has already been taken care of and cleaned to the Manager’s standards. There isn’t any more busywork to be done, but her hands itch for something to keep her body occupied, to draw her thoughts away from Takamori-sama’s memory to something less taxing.
Her eyes flick to the silver of a whisk hanging nearby, and just the gleam alone reminds her of all the silverware she found in the back closet. All of those spoons and forks were so beautiful—works of art in their own right—but she didn’t see the point in polishing them if she didn’t know how to use them or where to place them. Guests were usually content with a standard 4-piece set of cutlery anyway.
But then her mind flicks through images of Takamori-sama’s final moments, and without another second of hesitation, Ruri hefts the box of silverware off the countertop and carries it to the dining room. The act of polishing leaves her shoulders sore and fingers aching, but the movements are simple and therapeutic, and the act of examining all the grooves and ridges in the silver for remaining tarnish quietly pulls her mind away from everything else. She forgets Takamori-sama, the time of day, and even, to some extent, where she is.
Pick up a piece of silver, polish until it gleams, inspect for tarnish, and sort into a category. Pick, polish, inspect, sort. One fork after another, spoon after spoon.
“That’s a marrow spoon,” a soft voice says from behind her. “Not a knife.”
Ruri startles, jumping half out of her skin as she readjusts the grip she has on the knife-spoon-thing she had just attempted to sort and brandishes it at the person that half scared her to death.
“Jeez! Don’t sneak up on people like that!”
She doesn’t care if he’s a guest, staff, or even the Manager’s mysterious boss. She can hear her heart (a fake heart with fake blood that sounds all too real as it rushes past her ears) and it is so, so loud that she can barely focus on the stranger’s reserved response.
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He looks apologetic: knit eyebrows, concerned eyes, pursed lips, a tense jaw. He has a kind face and he wears clothing that looks like it belongs to someone official, like a bartender or waiter, so she wants to believe him. At the same time,
“Why were you standing so close to me? Don’t you understand personal boundaries?”
He’s handsome. Too handsome. His hair is a cool dirty blond, tousled in a way that resembles male models that all the other girls at school fawn over on their phones. His eyes are the same color of blue as the pictures of the Caribbean Sea she sees in the windows of that travel agency she walks past from the grocery store. Combined with the shirt and vest, he looks like someone that spends a lot of time with pretty women. She knows his type.
If he starts to creep on me, I’ll hit him with that spoon and run for Menow-san. She’ll help me.
“I’m sorry.” The man bows again, hair hanging in front of his eyes. His voice is so soft. It isn’t quiet, but it retains a gentle quality, something so soothing that everything he says sounds like reassurance. “I should have asked if I could stand so close.”
And then he just…steps back. He keeps his distance.
Ruri chews the inside of her cheek as she stares up at him with crossed arms. It isn’t okay that he did that, but at the same time, the flare of anger that was there a moment ago doesn’t exist anymore. It doesn’t feel right to still be mad at him for just trying to give advice. He still looks like he could be trouble, but maybe she’s wrong. Maybe he’s a different kind of playboy.
Ruri looks away with a huff and mutters, “It’s fine. Just don’t do it again, okay?”
“Would you like me to leave?” he asks. “I can come back another time.”
She sighs and looks back at him. “I said it’s fine. Do you want to eat something? I can make whatever you like.”
He shakes his head. “No, but thank you for offering. Do you mind if I watch you?”
She frowns. “Watch me do what?”
His eyes flick to the silverware.
“Seriously?” she asks, scoffing. “I know there isn’t a lot to do here, but you can’t be that bored yet. It’s about as fun as watching paint dry.”
“You didn’t look bored,” he points out.
“Yeah, well, that’s because I was polishing.” She doesn’t know what she’s arguing with this guy about this. There’s no point. “...But if you really want to, then I won’t stop you.”
“Thank you.”
He sits down at a table next to her own, angling the chair towards her own station. She waits for him to add something, some weird question or even a simple coffee request, but no. There’s nothing. She sits back down, hesitantly, and looks at the utensil in her hand.
“What did you say this was?”
He gives a faint smile. “A marrow spoon.”
“Are you sure?” She turns the “spoon” in her hands, examining it. “I guess I can see it, but…”
“I’m sure.” He stands up, walks over to her table, and begins touching the silverware she just polished. “These are bouillon spoons, so you should put them with other soup spoons rather than with the egg or serving spoons. They may look similar, but their purposes are different.”
Ruri cringes initially as he lays his fingers on what she just spent so long cleaning, but she notices how gently he handles the utensils, and how he pinches them between his fingers to minimize how much of his fingerprint he leaves behind.
Then, it clicks.
“Wait, wait, you know what all these different spoons actually do?”
He nods.
A smile spreads across her face faster than she could ever hope to stop it.
“That’s amazing!” she gushes. “Wait, so, what is this spoon used for?”
She picks up one of the spoons she hasn’t polished yet and presents it to the guest.
He takes it from her and turns it over in his hand. “Since it’s smaller than a teaspoon, I think…it’s a coffee spoon. And then, this,” he picks up another spoon, “this is a measuring spoon.”
“There’s a spoon specifically for coffee? That’s crazy!”
She’s heard of a teaspoon, but never a coffeespoon. Is there a reason why the coffee spoon is smaller? Why do they use teaspoons for cooking and baking but then only fractions of teaspoons after that and not coffee spoons? How many fractions of a teaspoon is even a coffee spoon?
Ruri wants to ask a dozen other questions, one after another as they pop into her head, but she’s interrupted by the Manager entering.
“Sir,” the Manager greets.
“Manager.” The guest nods his head in acknowledgment as his small smile returns. “Thanks to your help, I found out who I am. Once I found a family photo, I figured it out.”
The Manager claps his hand in celebration. “That’s wonderful! May I have your name?”
The guest nods. “Haruto Atori.”
Haruto Atori. It’s a nice name. It fits him well.
Ruri watches as the Manager writes his name down, then grins. “Manager, it’s amazing! Atori-sama actually knows all the types of spoons and what they do!”
The Manager’s head flashes bright pink with embarrassment as he gestures for Ruri to stop talking for…some reason, but it returns to normal as Haruto’s attention is drawn to where Ruri’s eyes land. The Manager coughs into his fist then hastily asks, “S-so, do you know which direction your destination is?”
Ruri’s heart sinks. Of course Atori-sama has to be one of those kinds of guests: the type that checks in and checks out before she can serve them a single meal. Maybe she can get him to write her a little cheat sheet of which spoon is which before he goes if she asks nicely.
Atori-sama’s smile fades as he looks at the little measuring spoon in his hand. “...About that. I still have no idea. My memory cuts off once I leave my apartment in the morning.”
The part of the Manager’s face where darker flames usually resemble eyebrows shift to something that looks concerned, maybe sympathetic. He’s quiet.
“I’m sorry to be a bother,” Atori-sama adds after a moment, looking away from the spoon. He starts to bow. “If you need me to leave—”
The Manager shakes his head. “—No, no, you’re not a bother. You may stay here as long as you need. It’s exceptionally rare for guests to get their full memories back so quickly.”
Ruri nods. “Mhm. We’ve had people stay here for weeks.”
Just…don’t turn out like Takamori-sama. Please.
Atori-sama exhales and stands upright. “Thank you. I will inform you as soon as I know.”
“There’s no rush,” the Manager insists. “Well, if that’s all, then I’m going to get a pint.”
Ruri can’t help but roll her eyes. “Don’t let me catch you sleeping at the bar again!”
“Ruri-san!” he yelps, flames burning pink from embarrassment once more. “Don’t say those sorts of things in front of our guests!”
Atori-sama laughs, and Ruri can’t help but think that it’s one of the nicer laughs she’s heard.
She’s only known him for a few minutes, but she hopes that he’s one of those guests that turn out to be alive. She hopes that he doesn’t get to know until she’s asked him everything she needs to know.
“Hey, Atori-sama—what about this spoon?”