The house smells faintly of cold medicine and the lingering ghost of yesterday's
fever.
Kiyomi is wrapped in three blankets on the low kotatsu in the living-room,
looking smaller than I've ever seen her.
Her cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, hair stuck to her forehead with sweat.
A thermometer pokes out of her mouth like a cigarette.
Kiyomi (voice muffled around the thermometer)
You sure you don't want me to just order something?
We still have coupons for the yakitori place…Kiyoshi
You said you wanted rice porridge, right?
I can do porridge.
She pulls the thermometer out, squints at it (38.9 °C), winces, then looks at me
with pure, unfiltered worry.
Kiyomi
Have you ever turned on the gas stove without me in the house?
Kiyoshi
…There's a first time for everything.
She groans and flops sideways, blanket cocoon and all.
Kiyomi
Okay, new plan.
I'll sit right here and direct you like a very sick air-traffic controller.
Do not make me get up.
Do not burn the house down.
Do not cut your fingers off.I roll up my sleeves and step into the kitchen.
The cutting board looks alien.
The rice cooker blinks innocently at me.
Kiyomi (from the hall, voice hoarse but loud)
Wash the rice first!
Three cups!
No, not the measuring cup from the protein powder, the actual rice one!I find
the right cup.
Water runs cloudy, then clear.
I pour it into the pot like I've seen her do a thousand times.
Kiyomi
Now add water until it's about… this much above the rice.
Knuckle test!
Index finger touching the rice, water should reach the first joint!I stick my finger
in.
Cold.
Weirdly satisfying.
Kiyomi
Good.
Now turn the heat to medium-high until it boils, then immediately down to low.
And put the lid on slightly ajar or it'll overflow and we'll have rice lava
everywhere.The flame whooshes blue under the pot.
I jump a little.
Kiyomi (watching me like a hawk)
You okay?
You flinched.
Kiyoshi
It's louder than I expected.
She tries to laugh, ends up coughing into her blanket.
Kiyomi
Next: the eggs.
We're doing tamago-gohan style.
Crack two into a bowl.
Careful.
Shells are evil.I take an egg.
Tap it gently on the counter.
Too gentle.
Nothing happens.
Tap harder.
It explodes like a grenade.
Kiyomi
…That's one way to do it.I fish shell fragments out with a spoon while she buries
her face in the blanket to hide either laughter or despair.
Kiyomi
Okay, okay.
Whisk them with chopsticks.
Add a tiny pinch of salt and a little sugar.
Not too much!
That's enough!
Stop!I obey instantly.
Kiyomi
Now the scary part.
When the rice is almost done, you're going to pour the egg in a thin stream while
stirring constantly so it turns into those pretty threads.
Do NOT let it become scrambled-egg soup.
Her voice is getting weaker, but she refuses to lie down completely.
She's half-sitting, half-slumped, eyes fixed on me like I'm defusing a bomb.The
rice starts making soft plopping sounds.
Steam fogs the window.
Kiyomi
Now!
Turn the heat off, pour the egg, stir, stir, stir—
Yes, like that!
Perfect!I stir until the egg disappears into pale gold ribbons.
The smell is warm, comforting, exactly like every sick day we ever had.Kiyomi
Lid back on.
Let it sit for two minutes.
Then scoop it into my favorite blue bowl—
the one with the tiny crack—
and bring it here before I die of anxiety.I do everything exactly as ordered.
The bowl is hot in my hands.
I carry it like it's made of glass.She struggles into a sitting position when I kneel
beside the kotatsu.
Her eyes are shining (fever or something else, I can't tell).Kiyomi (quiet, almost
shy)
You really did it.
On your first try.
Kiyoshi
You didn't let me fail.
She takes the spoon with trembling fingers, scoops a small bite, blows on it
carefully, then tastes.
For a second she just closes her eyes.
Kiyomi
…It's perfect.
She eats slowly, savoring every bite like it's the best thing she's ever had.
Halfway through the bowl she looks up at me, cheeks still red from fever.Kiyomi
Thank you.
For not burning the house down.
For not cutting your fingers off.
The bowl is empty now, but she's too weak to keep her head up.
Her forehead is burning against my shoulder.
I slide one arm under her knees, the other behind her back.
She weighs almost nothing wrapped in blankets and fever.
Kiyomi (mumbling, half-asleep)
I can walk…Kiyoshi
You can't even lift the spoon anymore.
She doesn't argue.
Just turns her face into my chest like she did when we were little and
thunderstorms scared her.
I carry her down the short hallway to her room.
The door is already open; the night-light she still keeps (a tiny star-shaped one)
glows soft yellow.
I lower her onto the bed, pull the covers up to her chin.
She cracks one eye open when I turn to leave.
Kiyomi (hoarse, small)
Stay…
Just a minute.
I sit on the edge of the mattress.
She reaches out, finds my hand under the blanket, squeezes weakly.
Kiyomi
When we were little…
I was terrible at everything in home-ec class.
Couldn't even flip an egg without crying.
She smiles at the memory, eyes unfocused.
Kiyomi
But you got sick all the time.
Colds, stomach bugs, random fevers…
Every month you were curled up on the couch looking like the world was ending.
Her fingers tighten around mine.
Kiyomi
Mom was always working late.
So I decided I had to learn.
I practiced every night after you fell asleep.
Burned rice, ruined miso, cried over onions…
The kitchen looked like a war zone for weeks.
A shaky laugh that turns into a cough.
Kiyomi
I just… wanted to make something warm for you.
Something that tasted like "I'm here, you're safe, everything's okay."She turns
her face into the pillow, voice dropping to almost nothing.
Kiyomi
Every time you ate what I cooked and said "it's good"…
I felt like I was pouring love straight into you.
As much love as the bowl could hold.
Her eyes are glassy again, but this time it's not just the fever.
Kiyomi
So tonight…
when you made it for me instead…
it felt like the love came back around.
She squeezes my hand once more, barely any strength left.
Kiyomi
Thank you… for letting me feed you all these years.
And for feeding me tonight.
Her breathing evens out slowly.
The grip on my fingers loosens, but I don't move.
I stay there long after she falls asleep,
watching the tiny star night-light flicker across her face,
feeling the weight of every bowl of rice she ever placed in front of me settle
warm in my chest.For the first time since I woke up in that ruined room,
something inside me feels undeniably, unmistakably mine. Not borrowed.
Not stolen.
Just… returned.