Manager Sato’s “Wisdom Night"

Our shift had just ended when Manager Sato pointed a thumb toward the street.

“Let’s eat,” he said, already halfway out the door.

Miyu and I exchanged looks. It wasn’t a request—it was a command disguised as generosity.

“Is this about the inventory mistake?” I asked, jogging to keep up.

Sato scratched his neck. “What mistake?”

“That’s what I’m afraid to find out,” Miyu muttered beside me, arms crossed.

The evening air smelled of rain and fried noodles from all the nearby stalls. I’d expected to go straight home and collapse, but somehow I was being dragged to what Sato called his ‘training in life philosophy.’

I had a bad feeling about it.

The shop was a fair's walk away, and was one of those narrow, steaming places with red curtains and posters of idols who probably retired before I was born.

Sato ordered three bowls without asking what we wanted.

“Salt flavor for the soul,” he said solemnly.

Miyu sighed. “He says that every time.”

We sat at the counter while the old chef clattered pots behind us. Steam fogged the window, blurring the city lights into watercolor smudges.

Sato leaned on his elbows. “You two have been working well lately. I can tell.”

“That’s… good?” I offered.

He chuckled. "When people get along too smoothly, sometimes it means something is being hidden.”

I stared at my chopsticks. “Like what, stolen receipts?”

Miyu’s foot nudged mine under the counter. “Don’t start.”

Sato slurped his ramen with the kind of volume only managers and dads could manage. “You know, kids, a convenience store’s not only about selling stuff. It’s about interacting with people. Everyone who walks in is carrying something they don’t show.”

Miyu raised an eyebrow. “Like hunger?”

“Happiness or loneliness.”

The words hung there, heavier than the steam.

I tried to laugh it off. “You’re sounding like a manga protagonist, sir.”

Sato smirked. “You read too much manga, Ryota. But you’ll get it someday.”

He tapped the counter. “To understand someone, you gotta pay attention to what they hide—and what they can’t help showing.”

For a moment, I thought of Miyu’s faint smile yesterday. The one she didn’t know I saw.

Halfway through our meal, Miyu’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, her expression tightening.

A message from her parents, probably.

“You okay?” I asked quietly.

“Fine,” she said too quickly, slipping the phone away.

Sato caught the tension immediately. “Family stuff?”

Miyu’s chopsticks paused midair. “Nothing important.”

He shrugged. “Ah, the famous Takahashi stubbornness. Must be hard, hiding part of yourself all day.”

Her eyes flashed. “Excuse me?”

“The perfect student by day, part-timer by night,” Sato said, half-teasing, half-serious. “That’s a lot to juggle.”

Miyu opened her mouth, then closed it. “You wouldn’t understand.”

The air went awkwardly still. I wanted to step in, to say something dumb to break the tension, but for once, I couldn’t find a joke big enough.

Sato finally sighed. “Alright, alright. Forget I said anything.” He raised his glass. “To the mystery of youth.”

We clinked reluctantly. The ramen tasted suddenly saltier.

We left the shop under a thin drizzle, our breath misting in the cold.

Sato peeled off toward the station, muttering something about “evening enlightenment.”

That left Miyu and me walking side by side through puddled sidewalks.

“You okay back there?” I asked.

“I said I’m fine.”

Her voice was sharp, but it cracked a little at the edges.

“Manager’s kind of nosy, huh?”

“He’s not wrong,” she said after a moment. “I just… don’t like people assuming they know what I’m thinking”

“I get that.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. People see what they want. I used to be the ‘lazy guy with no plan.’ Now apparently I’m the ‘guy who collects trash receipts.’”

That got a short laugh out of her. The rain turned it soft, almost secret.

“You’re weird, Ryota,” she said, shaking her head.

“I hear that a lot lately.”

She glanced at me then—really looked—and for a heartbeat, the usual wall behind her eyes flickered.

We reached the intersection just as the warning bells started ringing. The red lights blinked across the wet asphalt.

Miyu stopped, staring at the passing train. The wind tugged at her ponytail.

“My parents think this job’s a waste of time,” she said suddenly.

I looked at her profile—the rain dots on her lashes, the way her voice trembled just enough to sound real.

“But it's not so bad,” I said. “You meet some pretty strange people there.”

She turned to me, eyes half-laughing, half-sad. “You mean you?”

“Among others.”

The train roared past, leaving us in silence. When the last car vanished, she stepped forward, brushing her sleeve against mine as if by accident.

We passed a local park. The small clock tower read 9:42 p.m.

Miyu exhaled. “Manager Sato’s ‘wisdom night’ should be renamed ‘unwanted therapy session.’”

“True,” I said. “But the ramen’s pretty good.”

She smiled faintly. “You really think he’s right, though? About people hiding things?”

I looked over at the swings.

“Maybe. But sometimes hiding things isn’t lying—it’s just… waiting until someone’s safe enough to see and understand.”

She watched me quietly for a moment, then nodded. “You’re getting philosophical on me.”

“Blame the salt flavor.”

She laughed under her breath as her umbrella shook. “See you tomorrow, philosopher.”

As she walked away, I caught a glimpse of her phone screen lighting up again—but this time, she ignored it.

I stood there under the night sky, letting the drizzle tap against my shoulders.