Kitchen Expedition Day

Leina · May 6, 2026

After two or three nights tucked into the Sign Hotel, a quiet unease had been growing — just one, but steady. The food supply was getting thin.

The cans and soup and biscuits from the corner room weren't quite enough to say "we're allowed to stay here" with any real confidence. And going back across the bridge to the painted building still felt too heavy — in body, in spirit. So it was settled: today, they'd make do with what the hotel itself had to offer.

That afternoon, Leina and Yu left room 308 and made their way through the restaurant at the back of the lobby, stopping in front of the kitchen — a place they'd only glanced into once before, two days ago. White tile floor. An overturned tray. Dark stains. A broken bottle. Stainless steel counters and a large refrigerator. The air was faintly cold, carrying the ghost of old grease.

At the threshold, Leina stopped.

In one hand: the handle of an old mop, repurposed as a probing rod. In the other: a work glove. Something in the chest, just slightly, drew tight.

There was a memory from another building, years back — stepping onto a floor like this, and feeling one tile drop away with a hollow thud. The foot had gone in up to the ankle before an old steel beam caught it. No real injury. But the cold air from that gap, and the way the heart had lurched — that hadn't fully left.

Ever since, any floor like this gets tested first.

The rod tapped the nearest tile. Kon. One tile further. Kon. Only where the sound came back solid did Leina move forward, one step at a time. The wet black patches and the broken glass got the rod, not the foot. Behind: the quiet presence of Yu.

This part's okay. That part — not today. Leina kept drawing that line in the mind, moving slowly inward. One hand on the edge of the prep counter for balance. The breath came a little easier.

Looking up: a few cans still sitting on the high shelf. Labels faded, but the cans themselves weren't dented. The bags nearby had split open, powder spilling out — clearly gone.

One, two, three. The reachable cans were lifted out one by one through the glove, lowered into the bag. A can with a faint trace of tomato red. Another that looked like it might be cream-based, something stew-like. Each time the metal touched metal with a quiet clink, the sense of that's one more meal accumulated, slowly.

On top of the refrigerator: a few dusty plastic bottles on their sides. Leina stepped up onto a nearby counter, stretched carefully. Fingertips found a cap — a dry rattle as it shifted. Two bottles from the near edge, brought in. The liquid inside was clear, nothing floating when shaken.

The far shelf still had a few more cans visible. But the floor between here and there was covered in wide dark staining, and when the rod tapped it, the sound came back different — not kon, more like boko, something soft underneath. Something in the body said, clearly: not today.

That was the line. Leina turned back toward the entrance and retraced the path the same way — tapping tile by tile, stepping backward, one at a time. When both feet touched the restaurant floor again, a slow breath out. The tightness in the chest loosened, just slightly.

Six cans. Two bottles. Enough to say "we're allowed to stay a few more days."

Leina handed the bag to Yu, who laughed and said, "I wasn't much help, was I." But having someone standing just behind — while all the attention went to the floor and the shelves — had kept the old gako memory from taking over. That had mattered.

They walked back down the corridor toward 308, tracing the count of cans with their fingers as they went.

Back in the room, Leina laid a sheet across the bed and set out everything they'd found. The cans touched each other with small sounds — kon, kon — and the bed grew just slightly heavier than the Fog outside the window.

Leina flicked one of the cans lightly and said, quietly, "This is enough for today."

Yu laughed from beside, and the sound of it sank into the room's air, and stayed.