The Neighborhood Uncle Who Only Says Hello

Three months have passed since I moved from the urban canyons of concrete and glass to this hilly port town.
The transfer order, bound in a thick file, had changed my sphere of life with surprising ease.
A new office, new colleagues, and a new apartment.
Contrary to the sound of the word "new," I couldn't shake the feeling that everything was somehow borrowed.
In the midst of this, the only time I felt was truly my own was my early morning walk.

I fill my lungs with the air of a town that hasn't yet fully awakened, walking along roads where the scent of asphalt mingles with the smell of the sea.
Learning the geography was half true, but the other half was like a ritual to confirm my own existence, drifting like a rootless weed in a strange land, onto this very ground.

There is a small hill on my usual walking route.
Near the top of that hill, which overlooks the harbor, stood an old but well-maintained house.
Every morning, around the time I passed by that house, there was an uncle who was always watering his plants in the garden.
A sun-tanned face and a white T-shirt.
He doesn't say much.
When I bow and say, "Good morning," he replies with a slightly raspy voice, "Oh, good morning."
Just that, a few seconds of exchange.
But that brief interaction became a small switch to start my day.
A nameless neighborhood uncle who only says hello.
His presence was a part of the morning scenery that had quietly melted into my new daily life.

✅ That uncle was...!

The three months since my transfer had passed like a storm.
I had learned the new tasks, matched faces to names of clients, and it was just when I finally had a little room to look around.
On a Friday night, after I finished work, a senior colleague at the office invited me out for a drink.
"I'll treat you to the best stew in this area," he said with a mischievous smile.
I had no reason to refuse.

He took me to an izakaya tucked away in a back alley, just a few minutes' walk from the office.
A red lantern with the words "Public Tavern" written on it, weathered by time, beckoned us in with its warm light.
When I slid the door open, the savory aroma of dashi tickled my nostrils.
The small shop, consisting only of a counter, was bustling with salarymen on their way home from work.
That liveliness lifted my spirits just a little.

"Boss, are you open?"

My senior called out to the other side of the counter.
And seeing the person who turned around in response to that voice, I gasped.

"Oh, welcome."

Standing there was, without a doubt, that uncle I exchanged greetings with every morning.
Instead of a white T-shirt, he was stylishly wearing an indigo samue, with a tenugui towel wrapped sharply around his head.
It was a stern look of a craftsman, different from the gentle expression I saw in the garden.
However, the kindness in his eyes was something I definitely recognized.

The uncle also noticed me and opened his eyes slightly.
"You're the one from up on the hill..."

"Yes, thank you for your kindness every morning."

When I explained the situation, my senior and the regular customers laughed, saying, "It's a small world."
The chance reunion added a pleasant harmony to the bustle of the shop.
The uncle—no, the boss—nodded happily, saying, "I see, I see," and pointed to the best seat at the counter, saying, "Well, sit down. It's on the house today."

In front of me was a large pot making a simmering sound.
Inside, offal and vegetables, which must have been carefully prepared, were dancing slowly in the amber-colored dashi.
Is this the stew my senior was bragging about?
The boss served it into a small bowl with practiced hands and placed it in front of me, saying, "Here you go."
I took a bite.
Immediately, the deep richness of the miso and dashi, and the melt-in-your-mouth flavor of the offal, spread throughout my mouth.
This is not just any stew.
It has the deep, nourishing flavor that only something made carefully and honestly over a long time can possess.
Strangely, that taste seemed to gently warm my frayed heart.

✅ I found something to look forward to on the way home from work

From that night on, passing through those red lanterns on my way home from work became my new habit.
I sit at the counter alone and first order the stew in silence.
The boss doesn't talk much.
I don't try to force a conversation either.
I just stuff myself with the piping hot stew and wash it down with cold beer, with the sound of him tending to the pot and the light banter he exchanges with other customers as background music.
That time felt incredibly luxurious.

Occasionally, the boss would speak up.
"It got cold this morning," or "The hydrangeas in the garden are about to bloom."
It wasn't the witty conversation you'd find in a city bar, but each of those rugged words soaked into my heart like water soaking into dry ground.
I also started to talk bit by bit about trivial complaints at work and stories about my hometown.
The boss would always just nod, saying, "I see," but I felt like his back was accepting everything.

Before I knew it, this shop had become more than just a place to eat for me.
It was a "place to belong" where I could reset my day and gain energy for tomorrow.
For me, who bears the fate of being a rootless weed as a transfer employee, the fact that there was a space that would welcome me with an "Welcome back" as soon as I passed through the noren curtain became my greatest emotional support.
I became acquainted with the regular customers, and before I knew it, I had melted into the scenery of this shop.
There was a calm, tangible daily life there that I couldn't have imagined three months ago.

✅ Stew named connection

Morning has come again today.
I climb the hill as usual and pass in front of that house.
The boss was watering the garden as usual.

"Good morning." "Oh, good morning."

The words we exchange are no different from yesterday.
But to me now, the meaning behind this short greeting feels completely different than before.
I know that beyond these words lie the warm glow of that red lantern, the sound of a pot simmering away, and the deep, rich flavor of the stew.

In the city, I didn't even know who lived next door.
Greetings were like meaningless symbols exchanged awkwardly in the elevator.
However, in this town, greetings opened the door to warm connections.
Is it the nature of this place? Or was it just a coincidence?

What does the owner think about every morning as he looks out over the harbor from this hill?
The deep flavor of the stew he makes might be the very depth of the time he has lived.
I have only seen a tiny fraction of his life so far.

I never know when a single transfer order might force me to leave this town again.
That is the fate of a transient worker.
When that time comes, I suppose I will have to let go of this warm place, too.

But even if the day comes when I leave this town, I will surely never forget.
The morning light seen from this hill and the warmth of the stew I tasted under that red lantern.
Human connections might be something modest that starts with a short greeting exchanged every morning.
And like carefully simmered offal, it slowly unravels the human heart over time.
At the same time, I know that these connections are fragile things that might be severed someday.
That is precisely why this very moment is so unbearably precious.

I looked back toward the owner's house once more.
And then, I walked down the slope leading to the harbor with a slightly more confident step than yesterday.

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