Chapter 4, Episode 1“An Empty Restaurant, A Filled Time”

From the day I turned thirty-eight, my life changed completely.

I woke up and went straight to the restaurant.  
I cleaned.  
I practiced.  
I tested dishes again and again.

Morning, noon, and night—I stayed in the kitchen.

The results showed quickly.

When midnight came, the aging slowed.

Thirty-nine.  
Forty.

Time was still moving forward.  
But not as violently as before.

My theory was right.

The more time I spent cooking, the thinner time became.

This restaurant was my barrier against it.

I stood alone in the empty space, flipping a pan.

The sound of butter sizzling filled the room.

No customers yet.

But I could already see them.

People sitting at the counter.  
Watching. Waiting.

I repeated each dish over and over.

I reduced the menu to six courses.

Two appetizers.  
Fish.  
Meat.  
A finishing dish.  
Dessert.

Six seats. Reservation only. One seating per night.

I wasn’t just serving food.

I was serving time itself.

At night, when I returned home, reality came back.

In the bathroom mirror—

A forty-year-old man looked back at me.

There were faint white strands in my hair.

“…But I can still move.”

My fingers hurt.  
My shoulders were heavy.

But I could still hold a knife.

That was enough.

One day, my former boss came to visit.

“Looks good,” he said, resting his hand on the counter.

“It’s small,” I replied.

“That’s fine. Small is good at the start.”

He stepped into the kitchen and watched me move.

“Your flow isn’t bad. You thought this through.”

“I didn’t have time not to.”

He paused.

“You’re rushing,” he said.

“…If I don’t, I won’t make it.”

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he said:

“Do a pre-opening. Let people taste it.”

A real test.

A real judgment.

A few days later, she came again.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“I’m scared,” I admitted.

“Of what?”

“That no one will come.”

She nodded.

“That fear never disappears.”

“Not for someone like me,” I said quietly.

She sat at the counter.

“Cook for me,” she said.

I made an omelet.

The same dish from the very beginning.

Butter melted slowly.  
Eggs flowed into the pan.  
The heat stayed gentle.

I plated it carefully.

She took a bite.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Then said:

“Not complete yet.”

My chest tightened again.

“What’s missing?”

She looked at me and said:

“Your life.”

I stood there, silent.

“You’re still in the middle,” she said.

Before leaving, she stopped at the door.

“Can I be your first guest at the pre-opening?”

I nodded.

“Of course.”