Rihoto

Rihoto ladles another portion of broth into a waiting bowl, the steam failing to clear their star-filled eyes. Their stall, perched near the lower stairs of Waterfall City, is all that remains of their old life. Before the storm, there were two of them. Two aprons, two sets of laughter echoing off the wet stone plaza. They carved the cane together one summer evening, meant for hiking the upper paths, not for leaning on after the floodwaters receded. The river that gives the city its life also takes. When it rose without warning, it swept away everything but them and the cane clutched in their hand. They still make the ramen, but the flavor is a phantom, a memory they can no longer taste.