When the initial shock came and went, Fumi took a walk in the hospital, accompanied by a friendly nurse.
He walked past many things. A small baked goods store, set up in the hospital for anyone that craved a warm tea. There was a convenience store too.
There were children playing football in the garden. A nurse chatted with a man in a wheelchair. There was a young couple, and the guy was on crutches.
It reminded him of his past life. Memories came back to him as he walked-- she had a brother who lived his life in the hospital. If he wasn't wrong, the brother died when he was thirteen from whatever illness he was down with.
That was another grim memory. Didn't she have any happy ones to share?
He walked past a waffle store, and paused.
No one could simply walk past a waffle store.
The heavenly aroma of butter in the air. The cream crackling and the sugar sizzling on the iron. The flood of honey that mixes in with the chewy, yet crunchy batter-- the subtle, salty creaminess of half-melted butter in the midst.
Who could resist?
Or so he thought.
He had barely even noticed the store there. It was a little pop up stall, with a few customers in the line.
(But there was no smell.)
"Fumi-kun, do you want one?" the nurse crouched down to ask him. "Tamako-san left me some money for you to use, so it's alright, go ahead if you want one."
She had urged him so kindly, Fumi almost felt compelled to buy one just because she said so.
But it was not enticing. It did not draw him in. He didn't feel like eating it.
"No, I'm okay."
(It wouldn't taste like anything anyways.)
He didn't want to feel the despair of not tasting it. He might end up hating waffles forever.
-
"Welcome home, Fumi!"
He was released from the hospital a month from the incident, and headed straight to Yukihira Diner for a celebratory dinner.
Almost the whole shopping district freed up time to make it there.
Fumi was shoved hastily inside the store, to be met with the colourful sight of poppers, streamers, and huge handmade signs.
It was all so homely, he couldn't help but smile.
"We missed you so much! This district just isn't the same without you!"
Someone hugged him a warm welcome, and he laughed. They then began to fight over who got the next hug and who got the third.
It was an atmosphere he missed in his hospital stay.
"Now that we're back, let's party! Here, have some juice. The adults are going to drink!"
"For what?!"
The lively party began quickly, and Fumi heard the sizzle of a stove as an extra large portion of fried rice for everyone was dished out to be served.
The world muted out.
He had thought something was strange when he walked in. It was a subtle difference, something he would never have noticed if not for his new condition.
Yukihira Diner smelled like the hospital now.
(It smelled like nothing.)
What did it usually smell like?
Food, fried chicken, eggs, flour and soy sauce. There would always be the fresh smell of rice, or the sweet waft of butter or oil in the air.
(It was a smell he took for granted.)
Now it was all gone, and the loss was bigger than its presence.
There was a void in his chest, and with each step the emptiness sagged like a gaping hole, bleeding and throbbing with each heartbeat.
He sat down on the counter.
"What will you be having, Kiyofumi?" Uncle Yukihira asked cheerfully, finishing up the last plate of karaage and handing it off to Tamako.
What will you be having...?
His usual? No, if he ate ginger pork rice now (he was craving it somehow) and couldn't taste anything, he would definitely, definitely cry. He didn't want to be any weaker than he looked right now. His head wound was still tender and his eyes red from crying. His lips sore from biting and his fingers aching from how hard he clenched his fist.
Did it matter what he had? He couldn't taste it anyways.
(What was the point of eating if he couldn't taste? What's the point of good food if flavour couldn't be passed on?)
"I'll," he stumbled over his words, conflicted.
He turned to the menu on the wall. He hadn't looked at the menu in years. It was always the same thing, after all-- he knew the menu by heart.
And one thing caught his eye.
He turned back to Uncle Yukihira, and somehow, a cheeky thought rose in him.
Nothing here smelled familiar. Probably nothing will too. But everyone looked so happy. He's so tired of crying.
So he brought a forced smile onto his face and told himself to forget everything, if only for a number of hours.
(That's right... there was no point being so depressed about it. It's a celebration, he shouldn't be a killjoy. He should order something to make himself forget about it.)
"I'll have a Chef's special!" he declared, raising his hand.
"Huh?!"
-
It was hard to think of the things that were different.
The bakery always smelled heavenly in the mornings. The oven and the burnt cheese. The flour, the sugar, and the baked butter. The toasty warmth of fresh goods from the oven, the caramel and the custards... it was a smell anyone would fall in love with.
His woke up in the morning, to be faced with a world that no longer felt like home.
Was smell such an important sense to have? He wasn't sure anymore. He never thought about it.
He drank a glass of water.
(He never really realized that water tasted like something too. Maybe it tasted like slightly sweet plastic. Now it doesn't taste, only feels, like a stream going down his throat.)
(He misses the taste of water.)
-
He kneaded the bread dough, the familiar motion accentuated by the memories that slowly, surely came back to him.
His hands moved further, deeper, richer. Quicker.
She still remembered how to do it, and like a mother leading him so gently, she was showing him the ropes first-hand.
He wound them into pretzels, sprinkled them with sugar, and baked them in the oven. It would then be topped with marron glace and orange honey syrup.
He turned to a new recipe.
Mixing in a generous amount of apple jam and cream custard, the sponge batter came out beautifully. Topped with apple caramel sauce and decorated with sliced apples-- it was by far the most beautiful of his works yet.
(Not him. Her. He was taking her knowledge and she was putting it back into practice.)
(But, he could use this.)
(After all, it was so beautiful.)
He took a slice of apple cake for himself.
It was unnerving. According to her memories, right now the kitchen should smell like something short of apple heaven. But he could sense nothing.
When the gooey, juicy cake soaked his tongue and melted like ice cream, he couldn't help but notice how disgustingly tasteless it was.
Even though the texture and mouthfeel of it all was so impossibly perfect.
(Did he seriously just think a cake was disgusting? Really?)
"Fumi, you're already back to baking? I thought the bakery's staying closed for a couple more days?"
He shrieked, surprised by the sudden visitor.
"That smells so good!" Tamako leaned over his shoulder and snatched a honey-crusted apple, "aren't these more amazing than usual? What's up today, experimenting?"
Fumi flushed a little, "I-!" he stumbled, "well, I mean... I just... had more ideas during my stay in the hospital. But... I guess, even if I make them, I can't taste them anymore, so I don't know if they're delicious..."
Tamako reached down to his spoon and scooped a forkful into her mouth.
All time froze and thunder seemed to strike something inside of her.
"Hey, Fumi," a dark shadow cast over her face, and her eyes were set straight, stern and serious. Her tone was low like a warning as she put the fork down.
Fumi stepped back. Oh no, was it a bad cake after all? Maybe he had made a mistake somewhere... he took extra care of measuring the ingredients with the scale, though.
"What is this?" she asked.
Fumi fiddled with his fingers, looking away, "Uh, it's a... apple custard cake, with custard cream and apple jam mixed into the sponge. And... other necessary cake stuff... uh, I'm... sorry is it, bad?"
Tamako was staring down at him like he was speaking utter nonsense. This was probably the first time Fumi'd come face to face with Tamako's staring down at something incomprehensible face.
She picked up another bite.
This time, the moment it slipped past her lips, she hummed contentedly, holding her cheeks delightfully.
"What is this?!" she asked again, this rhetorically, "the juice bursts out with every bite, and it just gets sweeter the longer it stays in my mouth. It melts like ice cream even though it's a sponge cake-- hey, Fumi, can I have the rest of this?"
Eh?
"Huh- uh, yeah..." he murmured, confused, "so it tastes good?"
"It might taste better than everything else you make, actually."
"Hey, I take offense to that!"
-
To the rest of the shopping district, what happened to Fumi was freakish.
Grandma Kiyo's house was old. After her son moved out many years ago, she hadn't had the strength to reorganize or clean up anything.
To a common household, it was considered preposterous to put heavy objects, like an oven, high up. For Grandma Kiyo, her old microwave had simply been on the fridge because she didn't have the strength nor time to take it down.
So when it finally came toppling down, on little Fumi of all people, the first thing that happened was that the entire shopping district banded together to help Grandma Kiyo do an entire out-of-season Spring Cleaning for the bakery.
When Fumi came back, the machine was gone from the house, deposited as scrap metal. The furniture was moved around to enable more space and less cluster. Ovens were put down on the lower shelves so Fumi didn't have to climb as much to reach around.
Needless to say, when everyone heard about his new disability, they were devastated.
Imagine their shock when the bakery opened once again, with the boy much better at baking than he was before the incident ever occurred.
His disability was meant to impair him, especially his cooking prowess. Even adults and legends of the past had a noticeable crank downwards when such a disability hit them.
It was almost terrifying that Fumi adapted so easily, so quickly.
(And he was only ten years old?)
No one could understand why his baking skills got better instead of worse. Most praised him as a genius, not thinking much of it. Some felt creeped out and avoided the topic. Both reactions were understandable.
No one would understand the truth, anyways.