The Third Pool’s Whisper

Steam clung to the kitchen like wet cloth, fogging the metal lids and turning the hanging ladles into ghosts. Kai’s fingers were pruned from the sink, the dishwater lapping at his wrist with the smell of soy, scallions, and toasted sesame. Somewhere beyond the order window, the bell kept dinging. Ryo barked tickets, Nisha sang back the table numbers, and the ramen bowls went out with spirals of heat that made the dining room cheer in a way you could feel through the wall.

Kai popped the drain and stacked the last glossy bowl to drip, then wiped his hands on his apron. There was clay under his nails again, that soft grit from the studio that never really left, even after detergent and steel wool. He rolled his shoulders, listened to the gurgle of the soup pot settling down, and shot a look at the clock. If he hurried, he could bike home along the seawall before the hush settled over the cove. He could sit on the porch steps and pretend he didn’t hear the way the gulls went quiet when the tide started to turn.

Nisha slid past him with a tray of chopsticks tucked under her arm. A strand of hair stuck to her forehead and she thumped his shoulder with the tray edge. 'Stop staring at the clock, clayboy. That pot isn’t going to scrub itself.'

'I scrubbed it,' Kai said. 'It scrubbed me back.'

Ryo laughed, wiped his palms on his chef’s pants, then leaned his knuckles on the pass to watch the last two tables linger over broth. 'You working both shifts tomorrow?'

'Just lunch,' Kai said. 'Studio in the morning.'

'Artist,' Ryo said with a half-smile that held more kindness than tease. 'Bring a piece by. The window needs a new lucky cat.'

Kai hunched, grinning without meaning to. 'I make bowls. And odd sea creatures. But sure.'

He grabbed his backpack from the hook by the back door. The air in the alley was briny and cool, carrying the slap of waves against the pilings. He breathed, the day’s heat slipping down his spine and out. The neon sign hummed above the greasy rear entrance, then sputtered and cut off. The world was suddenly only the drum of his bike tires and the metallic rattle of chain against gear.

Coldfall’s boardwalk was a strip of light and murals, faded games and hand-painted fish stenciled on planks. Beyond that, the water spread out like hammered glass. Kai pedaled past the shuttered fortune booth, past a teenager practicing kickflips alone, past a couple kissing under a wind-fluttered banner for the summer food fair. Overhead, a single star shook between thin clouds. He pressed his tongue to a chipped tooth and tasted salt. Home waited up the hill, a small house with peeling mint paint and a yard full of rosemary bushes that kept the cats away.