The cold breeze of early spring seeped through the cracked windows of Takagi Orphanage. As usual, Shin was the first to rise. The sun had yet to stretch over the distant mountains, but the boy was already stretching—each movement quiet, methodical, as if ingrained into his bones by something older than his current five-year-old self.
After his light morning exercise, he quietly made his way to the kitchen but stopped at the doorway. Unlike the first time when he frightened the older kids by sitting silently inside, this time, he waited patiently outside. His small figure stood still in the dim hallway until the orphanage cook passed by, blinking in surprise but no longer startled.
"Morning, Shin," the cook muttered groggily.
Shin only gave a slight bow before following her in. As always, he wasn't allowed to hold a knife, but he diligently helped wash vegetables, stir pots, and—when no one was watching—added a few pinches of his custom spice mix into the soup. The improvements were small, subtle. The flavors slightly richer. Meals became tolerable. No more complaints, just quiet acceptance.
Weeks passed, and Shin's routine stayed the same—until one morning, the orphanage manager summoned him and four other children around his age.
"We've enrolled you in the local kindergarten," she announced with a calm smile. "It's free, part of a government program. You'll start next week."
Shin simply blinked. He didn't particularly care. School was just another place to sit, stare, and wait for mealtime.
The first day of kindergarten arrived.
Children cried, laughed, clung to their parents. Some ran around, energetic and unaware of the formalities beginning inside the classroom. The orphanage manager guided the five children under her care, including Shin, into the building. He kept his head low, eyes distant.
Inside, Shin sat quietly at the edge of the classroom, staring at the ceiling. The teacher, a kind-faced woman named Ayano, noticed him spacing out and called out.
"Takagi... Shin-kun? Can you come introduce yourself?"
He stood, walked slowly to the front, and spoke in a flat, expressionless voice.
"Takagi Shin."
"Ah, do you have any hobbies? Anything you like?" Ayano asked, hoping to coax more out of him.
"Kitchen. Cooking food."
There was a pause. The teacher gave an awkward chuckle and moved on.
The introductions continued—brighter voices like Kaori chirping her name and love for animals, Kouki proudly declaring he wanted to be a hero, and Shizuku, composed even at a young age, calmly stating she liked swordsmanship because of her family dojo.
Shin returned to his seat and resumed staring at the ceiling. His classmates labeled him weird before noon. Some tried to talk to him; he barely responded. Others poked fun at his vacant expression. He didn't react. He only responded when food was mentioned or when called by a teacher. That was his norm.
Back in the orphanage, lunch had lost a bit of its flavor. The absence of Shin's secret contributions left the meals bland again. Younger kids noticed. Some complained. The older students, already at school, never knew.
But dinner returned to its improved form—Shin back in the kitchen, quietly mixing flavor into silence.
Late spring arrived, and with it, a special announcement during class.
"Next week," Miss Ayano said cheerfully, "is our annual Cooking Day! You'll all get to help prepare lunch together!"
Most children groaned or looked confused. A few showed excitement.
But Shin—
For the first time, something ignited.
His dull eyes lit up. He immediately stood, eyes locked on the teacher, and raised his hand.
"I want to cook," he said.
Ayano flinched, startled not by his words, but by the intensity behind them.
"Uh—alright, Takagi-kun," she said with a warm but surprised smile. "You can help."
He spent the following week waiting. Not for the lessons. Not for playtime. But for that one day—when he would hold a knife again.
The day finally came.
Shin wore his cooking outfit—an apron slightly too long, a mask covering his mouth, gloves on his small hands, and a net tucked under his hair. As he helped prepare the ingredients, a girl passed by him—Shizuku, her eyes catching his for a moment.
In that instant, she paused. Shin's ruby-red eyes gleamed with something primal, something fierce. It startled her—not in fear, but curiosity.
Then, Shin turned, faced the counter, and reached for the kitchen knife.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the handle, he froze. Not from fear, but recognition. The grip was natural. As if reuniting with an old friend.
A small smile flickered on his lips.
Together with the teachers and student cooking team, they prepared a simple lunch—Japanese curry rice. As usual, Shin did not speak much. But each action he took in the kitchen—cutting vegetables, stirring curry, adjusting the flavor—was performed with silent precision. The teachers didn't comment, but they exchanged glances.
"Isn't this... too natural for a five-year-old?"
"I thought he was just quiet... but this is something else."
When lunch was ready, the classroom filled with a rich aroma.
More prominent than usual.
The children clapped and said their "Itadakimasu!" cheerfully. Shin whispered the word under his breath.
Then came the silence.
Spoons moved. Mouths chewed. But not a word was spoken.
And before anyone noticed—their plates were clean. Every grain of rice, every drop of curry sauce, gone.
Some licked their lips, unsure of what just happened.
Ayano stood near the kitchen counter, holding a spoonful in her hand. She tasted it.
Her eyes widened slightly. "It's... a little different today," she murmured. "Richer. Fuller."
Behind the group, Shin sat quietly, wiping his hands.
His bangs still shadowed his face.
But beneath them, those ruby eyes glowed faintly.
And then, for the first time , he whispered:
"Not bad."