When I woke up, it was already afternoon. Arthur, with disheveled hair and deep circles under his eyes, was dozing off in a chair.

“Why did you eat my noodles?” I asked.

He woke with a start, rubbing his eyes vigorously.

“It’s cold.”

“It’s okay, you worked so hard to make it. Even if it’s cold, I want to eat it.”

He blinked, regaining some energy, and tentatively asked, “Should I make you another bowl?”

Looking at his face, which was subtly hopeful, I smiled, “Never mind, let the chef handle it. Your cooking isn’t that great.”

His face fell immediately, as if reminded of something. He seemed to recall...