Six seats line a well-used counter. It looks like sugi, though most wooden counters mellow into a similar warm tone after years of wear. The room is narrow, no larger than eight tatami. It’s a full house: four customers sit facing the wall behind the counter, where the host alternates between serving and tidying. Two more, including myself, are perched at the corner, looking down the length of the room.

A faint crackle of AM radio drifts from the kitchen, mingling with the hum of fans and refrigeration. At the counter, not a word is uttered. Each diner sits silently, either waiting for their order or eating intently. There’s no regard for the next person, but no disregard either. A shared understanding seems to hang in the air: it’s been a long week, and what’s needed is a moment to mentally idle.

Stepping in from the street, conscious effort is left outside. This is a place where the mind can reorganise itself without deliberate thought—something I catch myself doing, until the host slides me a second laminated menu from across the counter. I realise I’ll need to momentarily re-engage.