In the quiet commuter town of Aoba, Midori leads a double life—a dedicated nurse on weekdays, and the gentle owner of the café "Green Note" on weekends. To her regulars, she is the warm smile behind the counter, the woman whose chiffon cake is as light as air and whose dimple appears whenever she laughs.
But behind the counter, Midori carries a loneliness she has never spoken aloud. Her husband, Yuuichi, has vanished again—no calls, no messages, just silence stretching into days. It is a patter
Goodnight Punpun Side Story: Midori's Secret - A break in the rainy season, two tea bowls
The moment the chiffon cake was praised, Midori found herself smiling with a naturalness that surprised even her.
"Well, I'm so glad. Thank you."
Even her voice was buoyant. She had to admit, she'd handled that well.
Friday evening. In a residential neighborhood on the outskirts of Tokyo, in a commuter town along the private railway line, the café "Green Note" was quietly filling with its regulars. A small two-story wooden building with just twelve seats on the first floor. An eight-minute walk from the nearest station, tucked away in a back alley—Midori had been running this shop for two years now. On weekdays she worked as a nurse at Aoba General Hospital in the city; only on weekends did she stand behind this counter.
"Midori-san, this chiffon cake is really so fluffy. You should teach my wife how to make it."
The elderly woman seated at the counter brought a fork to her mouth as she spoke. Mrs. Saeki, who lived nearby. She'd been a regular the longest—coming ever since Midori had taken over the shop.
"Fufu, I'm not doing anything special. It's just whipping the eggs properly."
Midori rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse and retied the strings of her unbleached apron. Her shoulder-length black hair was loosely permed, and today she had it gathered at the back. Her deep brown eyes tilted down slightly at the corners, and when she smiled, a dimple appeared at the right corner of her mouth. The regulars called that dimple "Midori-san's smile marker."
"Oh, but whipping eggs is surprisingly difficult, you know."
The petite woman at the window table chimed in, cradling her coffee cup in both hands. She'd only started coming last month—Midori still didn't know her name.
"That's true. But once you've made it enough times, your hands remember."
Midori answered over the counter while quietly topping off the cup of the third regular—the elderly woman who always read a book in the farthest seat.
"Thank you."
The old woman said it without looking up. That was enough.
Outside the window, the western sun breaking through the rainy season's clouds dyed the damp asphalt gold. Remnants of the rain that had fallen until morning formed small puddles in the dips of the road. In the distance, she could hear the voices of elementary school children heading home.
Time in this shop flowed slowly.
Midori loved that time from the bottom of her heart.
Probably, she loved it.
But.
"—So anyway, my grandson got into high school this year."
Listening to Mrs. Saeki talk, Midori was thinking about something entirely different in a corner of her mind.
(Still no word.)
Her smile unchanged, she slid her gaze toward the smartphone beside the register. The screen was dark. No calls, no messages, nothing.
(Three days. Three days already.)
Midori tightened the corner of her lips, just slightly. Just slightly. Enough that the regulars would never notice.
"Midori-san, could I get a refill?"
"Yes, right away."
She answered and went to the back of the counter. As she brewed the coffee, Midori's heart cooled steadily. Her hands moved precisely. Weighing the beans, pouring the water, letting it bloom. This sequence of motions was as ingrained in her body as her nursing techniques.
(Your hands remember, huh.)
She repeated her own words from earlier in her mind.
(That's right. Things your body remembers—you can do them even when your heart can't keep up.)
She held out the cup.
"Here you are."
"Thanks, dear."
Mrs. Saeki smiled. Midori smiled too.
Every time she smiled, the dimple appeared at the right corner of her mouth.
Today, that dimple felt just a little heavy.
After closing time at seven, the last customer left.
"Thank you for your hard work. See you next week."
She saw Mrs. Saeki off and locked the shop door. She flipped the sign outside. When she turned off the warm-colored lights, the interior was instantly wrapped in blue dusk.
It was quiet.
The space that had been filled with laughter and the scent of coffee just moments ago was now just a box.
Midori leaned against the counter and let out a long breath.
"...Phew."
A sigh meant for no one was swallowed by the dark shop.
She picked up the smartphone beside the register. She tapped the screen and opened the call history.
—Ookuma Yuuichi.
Her husband's name sat at the top of the outgoing calls. The date was three days ago. She'd called, and it had been cut off after about ten seconds. Nothing had come from his side.
"Again."
She said it aloud, and thought:
(Again, huh.)
This wasn't the first time Yuuichi had drifted off. Five years of marriage. It had happened many times in that span. He'd gone to other women. He'd disappeared for days without saying where. And then he'd come back. Always with a terribly haggard face.
(At least he comes back. Maybe that's something.)
Midori shoved the phone into her apron pocket.
Yuuichi was a man who cornered himself. Smart, kind, with a voice that seemed to loosen the knots in your heart when he spoke. And yet, hopelessly weak.
(I loved that about him, at first.)
They'd met through a mutual acquaintance, back when Midori had just started working as a nurse. Yuuichi was thirty-five. He'd finished graduate school at an art university and was teaching at a pottery class. But he quit before long.
"It's not for me."
He'd said that and laughed.
The way he laughed had seemed unbearably lonely to Midori.
(I couldn't leave him alone.)
Maybe her caretaker nature had been her undoing. No—it wasn't just her nature. Midori herself had been lonely.
Being with Yuuichi made her feel like she could be useful to someone. Like she could fill his instability with her own devotion.
(How stupid.)
Midori opened the register drawer and checked the takings. Today's sales: seven chiffon cakes, nine cups of coffee. A little over six thousand yen altogether. Since she only operated on weekends, it helped with living expenses, but it wasn't enough to survive on the shop alone.
(Thank goodness I kept nursing.)
Two hundred eighty thousand yen a month. With that, she covered the mortgage on this house and a life without Yuuichi.
Every time Yuuichi vanished, Midori thought:
(Why did I marry this man?)
The answer always landed in the same place.
(Because I didn't want to be alone.)
That was all.
Just that, and nothing more.
When she went up to the second-floor living quarters, the rooms were dead silent.
Midori turned on the lights and removed her apron. She loosened the collar of her white blouse, pulled a hair clip from the pocket of her linen pants, and let her hair down. Her shoulder-length black hair brushed against her faintly tired cheeks.
She stood in the kitchen.
When she opened the refrigerator, two plastic containers of simmered food sat neatly side by side.
Chikuzenni. Yuuichi had made it.
(He really is good at cooking, if nothing else.)
Midori took out one container and opened the lid. The sweet-savory scent of soy sauce rose softly. Inside were chicken, burdock root, carrot, konnyaku, and lotus root. The colors were beautiful, the seasoning exquisite.
When was the last time Yuuichi had been home?
Four days ago. No—five?
That day, Yuuichi had stood in the kitchen for once and made this.
"Midori, for the burdock—do you like it cut on the diagonal or in chunks?"
"Huh? Either is fine."
"No, that's not what I'm asking. Which do you like?"
Yuuichi only got strangely serious when it came to cooking.
"...Diagonal, then."
"Got it."
Such a trivial conversation.
(He was normal then.)
Midori put the container in the microwave and started it. Only the whir of the machine echoed through the quiet kitchen.
She took a rice bowl from the cupboard.
One.
And then another.
Her hands set two bowls on the table without hesitation.
(Ah.)
Only after she'd done it did she notice.
(I'm doing it again.)
Midori stood before the table and looked down at the two bowls.
Two white bowls placed facing each other. One had chopsticks beside it. The other had nothing.
(No one's coming.)
Yuuichi wasn't here.
And still, she set out two.
This habit had seeped into Midori at some point, she couldn't say when.
—When she was a child.
Midori's parents had both worked. Her father was a company employee; her mother worked part-time at a supermarket register. Both came home late.
Dinner was always alone.
On the table, the side dishes her mother had prepared in advance and rice from the cooker. Just one bowl—hers.
(But I always set out two.)
Thinking someone might sit down, she'd place a bowl across from her too.
But no one ever came.
Midori ate alone.
She turned on the TV, raised the volume, and papered over the loneliness.
(I'm not lonely.)
She'd told herself that, stubbornly, over and over.
—That memory remained, even now, as this habit.
(I want to share a table with someone.)
That was the only wish at Midori's root.
Maybe that was why she'd become a nurse, too.
Every time a patient said "thank you," the hole in Midori's heart filled just a little.
(I'm needed.)
That feeling made her happier than anything.
But the hole never truly filled.
When work ended and she came home to an empty house, she was empty again.
(What am I even doing?)
The microwave beeped.
She set the warmed chikuzenni on the table and sat down.
The seat across from her was empty.
She picked up her chopsticks.
"Thank you for the meal."
She said it in a small voice and took a bite.
...Delicious.
It was Yuuichi's flavor.
(He really is good at cooking, if nothing else.)
She smiled wryly at the thought.
When she smiled, the dimple appeared at the right corner of her mouth.
(The dimple's showing.)
She could tell, somehow, without a mirror.
Smiling alone, eating alone.
It should have been lonely, and yet some part of her was strangely calm.
(Because I'm used to it.)
Used to dinner alone, to her husband's absence, to nights with no word from him.
She'd gotten used to all of it.
Whether that was sad or easy, she could no longer tell.
Around nine at night.
Midori finished the dishes and sat absently on the living room sofa. The TV was on, but none of it registered.
She checked the phone in her hand, again and again.
(No calls.)
(No messages.)
(Not today either, then.)
The moment she thought it, the phone vibrated.
The name on the screen—Ookuma Yuuichi.
Midori's heart gave a hard thump.
(Finally.)
A call.
For an instant, her finger stopped.
(What should I say when I pick up?)
Get angry? Cry? Or just a normal "hello"?
While she hesitated, the ring sounded a second time, a third.
(No—I have to answer.)
She pressed the call button.
"...Hello?"
Her voice was trembling slightly.
"Ah, Midori? It's me."
Yuuichi's voice. Low, slightly hoarse—the first time she'd heard it in days.
"...Where are you?"
She asked, holding her emotions back as much as she could.
"Ah—so, the thing is, I've got a favor to ask."
Yuuichi ignored her question.
"A favor? What favor? Where are you right now?"
"My sister's son—you know, her boy. He's run away from home. Could you take him in for a bit?"
Yuuichi's words were always like this.
He didn't listen to what you had to say. He just lined up whatever he wanted to talk about, one-sided.
"Huh...your sister's son...?"
Midori tried to recall Yuuichi's sister. She'd met her once, at the wedding. A hysterical woman, but somehow lonely-looking. Her son—he should still be a teenager, surely.
"Sorry, I'll explain the details later. Anyway, I've told him to head your way tomorrow."
"Wait—Yuuichi-san. I'm asking you where you are right now!"
The instant Midori raised her voice—
Toot, toot, toot.
The call had ended.
"...You're kidding."
Midori stood frozen, clutching the phone.
(Did he just hang up?)
(Without listening to me?)
Anger welled up slowly from the pit of her stomach.
(What is wrong with this man?)
(Is that how you ask someone for a favor?)
But beneath the anger, another feeling surfaced.
(...Thank goodness.)
(He's alive.)
(I got to hear his voice.)
Midori didn't want to acknowledge that feeling inside her.
Because if she did, it would force her to confront just how dependent she was on Yu
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