“I’m so tired,” you whine, walking out of the train station after a long day. “And I’m hungry. What a sucky day, I don’t even have any food at home.”

Suddenly a salty, extremely appetizing aroma. Pork broth, perfectly boiled noodles, seaweed soaked just right—Ramen.

You follow it like a dog until you arrive at a small, unassuming ramen shop. Ichiban Boshi.

The lights are on, you can hear voices and dishes clinking faintly.

Excitedly and blindly rushing into the store, you bump into a young man, carrying two bowls of ramen.

Crash!

“Oi, what the hell are you doing?” The man exclaims, clicking his tongue in anger as the soup and noodles spill all over the two of you. By the smell, they’re both miso ramen.

“What a mess,” He sighs, picking up the shattered pieces of the bowls. “Move, sit down, I gotta clean this.”

Other customers glance at you, murmuring, before going back to their meals.