"Are you from around here?" the girl asked one day, her voice light with curiosity.
The man took a slow sip of his soup before answering.
"I am from far away."
"I see…"
They spoke like this from time to time—if it could even be called talking.
Their conversations were short, scattered, and often one-sided.
But neither seemed to mind.
Most of the time, they sat in silence.
And when the girl left for the night, the man returned to his usual self—quiet, distant, indifferent.
Days passed.
Whenever it was time to replenish the ingredients, he sold her new vegetables, and their exchange continued as it always had.
But one morning, something changed.
The girl didn’t come to take the pot.
At first, the man thought little of it.
Maybe she had simply forgotten.
Maybe she was busy.
But as the hours stretched on, the thought lingered in his mind longer than it should have.
By midday, a different possibility crept into his thoughts.
Maybe she was sick of him.
Maybe she found someone else to share her life with.
It would be good for her.
Most Humans were already married at her age.
She wasn’t unattractive either—she had bright, lively eyes and a stubbornness that made her stand out.
It made sense.
Still, when evening arrived, and she didn’t return with the usual pot of soup, the man realized something.
He had grown used to their dinners.
He had grown used to her presence.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt the weight of an absence.
He didn’t know where she lived.
Even if he did, he wouldn’t have gone to find her.
But tonight, for the first time, he wished he knew.
***
Two days later, the girl arrived in the morning, as if nothing had happened.
"Good morning!" she greeted cheerfully, her voice carrying the same warmth as always.
The man looked up from where he sat, his gaze unreadable.
"You didn’t come," he said simply.
"Ah, sorry about that," she said, rubbing the back of her head. "I was sick for two days."
He studied her for a moment. She looked fine now, but something about the way she swayed slightly as she stood told him otherwise.
"You’re too weak," he said, standing up. "From today on, take the rest of the pot with you."
The girl blinked, then quickly shook her head.
"Ah, there’s no need!" she said. "I’m fine with eating just one meal a day. More importantly, you should eat more sinc—"
Updated from freewёbnoνel.com.
"Stop."
His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.
She hesitated, watching as his expression darkened.
"I will eat only one bowl from now on," he said, his tone final. "Either accept it, or don’t come again."
For the first time, she faltered.
Then, after a long pause, she sighed in defeat.
"...Okay," she mumbled. "I’ll do as you say."
But as she picked up the pot and turned away, she smiled.
***
The days passed once again.
The soup, which had once been thin and tasteless, now had four ingredients. It wasn’t amazing, but at the very least, it was edible.
One evening, as they sat across from each other, the man suddenly spoke.
"Where do you live?"
"Cough—"
The girl nearly choked, barely managing to keep the food from flying out of her mouth. She pounded her chest, wide-eyed.
"What—cough—why do you ask?"
The man didn’t react to her outburst. He simply continued eating, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Don’t worry," he said flatly. "I’m not asking to visit. And I won’t do anything to you."
"Ah, no! That’s not it!" she quickly waved her hands. "I just… didn’t think you would be the one asking me a question."
He exhaled, unimpressed. "Whatever."
The girl, still recovering from her shock, turned her head and pointed.
"Ah, here. I live in that house," she said, motioning toward a small home not too far from his own.
The man followed her gesture and gave a slight nod before returning to his meal.
And just like that, the conversation ended.
Once again, the days drifted by.
The girl was 21 now.
The soup had all the ingredients it needed, and sometimes, they ate different things.
The man found that he liked those sometimes.
So, one day, he acted.
"Do you want to make food for me?" he asked.
The girl blinked. "Huh? I am making food for you."
"No. Not like this." He set his bowl down. "From today on, I’ll buy the ingredients. Come and cook here."
The girl tilted her head, processing his words.
Then, without thinking much about it, she shrugged.
"Hmm… okay."
Only after the words left her mouth did she realize what she had just agreed to.
Her eyes widened slightly in surprise.
The man didn’t react, but for some reason, that night’s meal felt different.
***
The man bought meat.
From that day forward, he would eat meat. Find more to read at freewebnovel
It was a small change, yet it felt significant.
Meat was expensive, which explained why the girl had never cooked any for him before. She had always been careful with her ingredients, stretching what little she had to make simple meals.
But another thought crossed his mind.
Did she even know how to cook meat?
He was about to ask when she spoke up, as if reading his mind.
"I learned how to cook from my mother," she said, rolling up her sleeves. "We were well-off back then."
Her tone was light, but there was something in her voice—something distant, as though she were remembering a life that no longer belonged to her.
The man didn’t ask any further.
That night, they ate meat for the first time.
It was tender, rich, and filled the air with a scent he hadn’t smelled in a long time.
And when the meal was done, the girl packed half of the leftovers to take home—though only because the man forced her to.
***
Days passed, and then one evening, as they sat at the table, the man remembered something.
Seasoning.
He bought some the next day.
The difference was immediate. The food was no longer just "good"—it was exceptional.
As he chewed, an unfamiliar feeling washed over him.
His tongue… felt happy.
It was such a simple thing, yet it caught him off guard.
He sat there, staring at his empty plate, and before he realized it, a question slipped from his lips—his first real question in almost a year.
"What is your name?"
The girl froze, her eyes widening.
Then she laughed, shaking her head in disbelief.
"You’re full of surprises," she said. "You ask me this now?"
Still, she answered, "My name is Silk. Sir, what is yours?"
The man opened his mouth to reply.
But the sound never reached his ears.
He couldn’t hear the answer.
Instead, all he heard was his own voice, echoing in his mind:
"What a great name…"
"But," he added, "don’t call me that."
The girl frowned. "Huh? Why not? Your name is grand."
He looked down at his hands, tracing invisible lines against the wooden table.
"I left my name in my hometown."
She studied him, her usual cheerfulness dimming for a moment.
Then, after a pause, she asked, "So… what should I call you?"
His fingers stilled.
"Call me Efsa."