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 - Aiko's Letter — The Secret of the Night Exposed
No, she thought.
She understood it in her head. Yuuichi had come home — it had already been two weeks. And yet something had been lying there between them the whole time, never moving.
Midori stood at the counter of Green Note after closing, wiping the same spot over and over with the cloth in her hand. The grain of the wood came back to the same place no matter how many times she wiped it.
A small two-story wooden café. The interior was done in shades of green, crammed with potted plants. Outside the window, the summer dusk was staining the alleys of the residential neighborhood a dim, dusky color. Eight minutes on foot from the nearest station. A quiet spot just off Himawari-dori Shopping Street.
(I wonder what time Yuuichi will be home today.)
She thought it — and immediately pushed the thought away.
(Even when he comes home, he won't talk about anything.)
(Welcome back. That's all. Just welcome back.)
(And then, silence.)
Midori set the cloth down on the counter. The edge of it stopped flat against the wood, as if it had stuck there.
A sigh slipped out of her, unbidden.
Two weeks ago, Yuuichi had come home in a mud-caked suit. A ticket stub for Kagoshima Chuo. And that day, in the mailbox — an envelope with no return address.
"Aiko."
Those two characters had been stuck in the corner of her mind ever since.
(I still haven't opened it.)
(I'm afraid to open it.)
Midori slipped her hand into her apron pocket. Her fingertips traced the seam of the fabric.
The hard feel of the envelope was no longer there.
That day, while she was getting the shop ready, she hadn't been able to open it after all — so she'd put it away in the drawer of her room upstairs. And locked it.
(I have to open it today.)
(But I still can't.)
(Why am I so afraid?)
She knew the answer.
(I feel like it's about that night.)
(I can't help feeling that.)
Midori shook her head.
(I'm overthinking it.)
(It might just be a prank, or a mistake.)
(That's right. I'm sure that's all it is.)
She told herself so, inside her heart.
But the restless feeling deep in her chest would not go away.
After finishing up the shop, Midori went upstairs.
The wooden stairs creaked, gishi, gishi. With every third step, her fingers tightened around the handrail.
When she opened the living room door, Yuuichi was sitting on the sofa.
A haggard face behind silver-rimmed glasses. Unkempt short hair, black now beginning to mix with white. His lips were chapped, as always — from biting them, from the stress.
Yuuichi was reading the newspaper. The sound of turning pages fell into the room, steady and regular.
He didn't look up when she came in.
(This again.)
(We're in the same room, but it feels like we're in different worlds.)
Midori stood in the kitchen and began preparing dinner.
She opened the refrigerator. Inside, the simmered dish Yuuichi had made was still there. A film of soy sauce traced a ring around the edge of the pot.
(He's good at cooking, at least.)
(This man.)
Midori set the pot of simmered food on the stove.
Lit the flame.
Blue fire licked the bottom of the pot.
After a while, the sweet smell of soy sauce and sugar spread through the kitchen. Under the range hood, steam curled into a vortex and was drawn away.
Midori set two bowls on the table. The ceramic touched the wooden top with a small clack.
(Two servings.)
(But my heart is only one.)
(When did it come to this?)
Midori stirred the simmered dish with her chopsticks.
The daikon had gone so soft it was about to fall apart.
"Dinner's ready."
Midori called into the living room.
Yuuichi looked up from the newspaper.
"...Ah. Thanks."
A short reply. The newspaper was folded in half on his lap.
The two of them sat facing each other across the table.
Without even an "itadakimasu," they picked up their chopsticks.
Silence.
Only the ticking of the clock's second hand echoed through the room.
Tick, tick, tick.
Midori brought the simmered food to her mouth. The daikon crumbled softly on her tongue.
(It's good.)
(This man's simmered dishes are always good.)
(So why does it taste like nothing at all?)
Midori chewed her rice slowly. Each grain left its own separate sensation in her mouth.
Yuuichi ate in silence, eyes down. His chopsticks tapped the rim of his bowl.
(I want to talk about something.)
(But what would I even say?)
(It's been like this for two whole weeks.)
(There's so much I want to ask.)
(Where were you? What were you doing? What was that ticket?)
(But I can't ask.)
(If I ask, he'll just leave again.)
(I'm afraid of that.)
Midori set down her chopsticks. The tips spun in a slow circle above her bowl.
"...Want some tea?"
"...Yeah. I'll take some."
Midori stood and put tea leaves in the teapot.
Poured in the hot water.
Steam rose softly. The leaves slowly unfurled inside the pot.
(Pouring tea — just that, and somehow it feels so important.)
(Like the one thin thread connecting me to this man.)
Midori set two teacups on the table. The warmth seeped slowly from the bottom of the cups into her fingertips.
"It's hot, so be careful."
"Thanks."
Yuuichi wrapped both hands around his cup.
His fingertips seemed to tremble, just slightly. Beyond the steam, his glasses fogged over.
(He's afraid of something too.)
(Of what?)
(Of me? Or of himself?)
Midori brought her own cup to her lips.
The hot tea flowed slowly down her throat. Her esophagus warmed, bit by bit.
The next day.
Midori was getting the shop ready to open.
Saturday. Green Note's weekend-only business day.
She raised the shutter. The sound of scraping metal echoed down the morning alley.
Morning light poured into the shop. The leaves of the potted plants caught the light all at once.
Midori began turning the coffee mill.
The sound of grinding beans filled the quiet shop.
Gari-gari, gari-gari. The hardness of the beans traveled through her palm.
The usual morning sound.
The usual morning smell.
(I'll do my best again today.)
(I wonder if customers will come.)
(I wonder if Saeki-san is doing well.)
(I wonder if the chiffon cake baked properly.)
Midori started preheating the oven. The red lamp came on.
Just then — jingle-jingle — the doorbell rang.
Midori looked up.
"Welcome."
She called out — and her breath stopped.
It was Punpun who had come in.
A yellow, fluffy head like a chick's doodle. Eyes like black dots. A beak-like pointed mouth.
And beside him stood Nanjou.
Black hair cut to shoulder length. Thin silver-rimmed glasses. Long, narrow eyes. A small mole at the corner of her mouth. A navy dress wrapping her slender frame.
Her back was perfectly straight.
(These two again.)
(Punpun-kun and Nanjou-san.)
Midori's chest gave a tight little squeeze. Something inside her ribs shrank small.
"Good morning, Ookuma-san."
Nanjou spoke in a calm voice.
"Good morning, Nanjou-san. Good morning to you too, Punpun-kun."
Midori made a smile. Lifted the corners of her mouth. A dimple appeared on her right cheek.
(It's fine.)
(I'm fine.)
She repeated it in her heart like a spell.
Punpun gave a small, slow nod.
"...Morning."
A tiny voice, like a soliloquy. Just hearing it, something in the back of Midori's ears seemed to loosen and drift.
Just hearing that voice, she felt her chest warm, softly.
(Ah. This child never changes.)
(Hasn't changed.)
(Thank goodness.)
"Are the two of you here for a meal today?"
Midori led them from behind the counter to a table.
A two-seat table by the window. Punpun's head let the window light through, yellow and translucent.
Nanjou sat first, and Punpun sat across from her. The chair legs scraped the floor.
"Two coffees, please. And chiffon cake as well."
"Certainly."
Midori returned to the counter and began brewing coffee.
She lit the siphon. Inside the glass globe, the water slowly rose. The surface swelled and raced up the narrow tube.
(Nanjou-san is beautiful today, too.)
(Intelligent, composed — a good match for Punpun-kun.)
(...A good match.)
(Yes. They're a good match.)
(So why does my chest ache like this?)
Midori poured the coffee into cups. A deep, bitter aroma filled the shop. The back of her nose tingled.
Midori carried the coffee and the sliced chiffon cake to their table. The forks clinked against the edges of the plates.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
"Thank you."
Nanjou took a sip of coffee. The cup returned to the saucer. The clink sounded strangely clear.
"...Delicious. Ookuma-san's coffee really puts me at ease."
"Thank you. Hearing that from you makes me happy, Nanjou-san."
Midori smiled.
(Her smile is lovely too.)
(I can't compete.)
(Not me. Not at all.)
Punpun ate his chiffon cake in silence. Cutting small pieces with his fork, bringing them to his mouth. There was something so dear about the way he did it.
(Punpun-kun liked this cake, didn't he.)
(He asked for seconds, once.)
(I was so happy then.)
Midori watched the two of them quietly from behind the counter. Her hand on the cloth tightened on its own.
After a while, Nanjou beckoned to her. Her white fingers drifted slowly through the air.
"Ookuma-san, there's something I'd like to talk to you about."
Midori's heart gave a jump. Inside her chest, the beat grew one size larger.
(Talk?)
(About what?)
(I have a bad feeling about this.)
Midori slowly approached their table. The floorboards creaked with each step.
"Yes, what is it?"
Nanjou opened her mouth, looking slightly reluctant.
"The truth is, starting today, Punpun is going to move in with me completely."
Time stopped for Midori.
(Huh?)
(What did she just say?)
(Punpun-kun is moving to Nanjou-san's house?)
(Completely?)
Midori tried to hold her smile. The corner of her mouth twitched.
But her lips wouldn't move properly.
"...I see."
That was all she managed. Her voice rasped in the back of her throat.
Nanjou nodded.
"Yes. Punpun himself said that's what he wants. I want to respect his wishes, too."
Midori looked at Punpun.
Punpun was looking down. She couldn't tell what those black-dot eyes were seeing.
(Punpun-kun decided that himself.)
(He chose Nanjou-san's house. Not mine.)
Deep in Midori's chest, something quietly collapsed. Without a sound, like sand, trickling away.
(I want to stop him.)
(I want to say don't go.)
(I want to scream stay here.)
(But I can't say that.)
(I don't have the right.)
(Because I'm nothing to this child.)
Midori gripped the edge of her apron tight. Her nails dug into her palm. Through the cloth, her skin slid smooth.
It hurt.
But the pain kept the tears back.
"...I see."
Midori smiled.
The best smile she'd managed yet. Her cheek muscles trembled, just slightly.
"If Punpun-kun decided it himself, then that's the best thing. Nanjou-san, please take good care of him."
Nanjou bowed deeply. Her hair slipped smoothly off her shoulder.
"Thank you. I'm truly grateful to you, Ookuma-san. For welcoming Punpun so warmly."
"Oh, no — I'm the one who's always being helped by Punpun-kun."
Midori spun out the words desperately, so her voice wouldn't shake. Pushing each syllable out of her mouth as if checking it.
(The one who was taken care of was me.)
(That night, when loneliness was about to break me, it was Punpun-kun who saved me.)
(But I could never say that.)
(A secret I'll take to my grave.)
(A secret I decided never happened.)
Nanjou stood. The chair dragged across the floor.
"Well then, we should be going. The check, please."
"Yes. Thank you for coming."
Midori headed for the register. Her fingertips paused for an instant over the buttons.
After they settled the bill, the two of them headed for the shop entrance.
Punpun stopped in front of Midori.
And without a word, he squeezed her hand — just once.
A small, warm hand. The pads of his fingers rested softly against her palm.
Midori's right hand. The same hand she had squeezed back with that night.
(The same hand that held mine that night.)
(The same warmth.)
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