There’s a diner called “Ootori” on the shopping street of Space Station Ring Seven.

The owner, Kawano, is a loud woman. Mid-forties, and when she calls orders through to the kitchen, her voice bounces off the ventilation ducts and carries all the way to the dry cleaner’s next door. Although the dry cleaner’s closed last month.

Among her regulars, there’s one customer whose name she can never quite remember.

Yasuda, maybe. Or Ando. A small man who always comes in just after two in the afternoon and says, “Small portion, please.” The daily special, small portion. He’s never ordered anything else. Ten years of this.

Kawano has a loud voice but a somewhat unreliable memory. She vaguely recognizes Yasuda’s face, but can never recall what they’ve talked about. Whether they’ve ever talked at all is debatable. He’s just there when she glances over, and gone when she glances again. Only the empty plate remains, and she thinks, oh — he was here.

The shopping street on Ring Seven, incidentally, has lost half its shops over the past three years.

The ramen place “Sorafu” closed. The yakitori joint “Kushiyoshi” closed. The udon shop “Norentei” closed. The bakery “Komugiza” and the curry place “Spice Port” too. The reasons were always the same: customers dropped off. That’s all anyone said before taking down the sign.

“Ootori” is still standing. Whether it’s because of Kawano’s loud voice or the flavor of the daily special, she couldn’t say.

One day, Kawano happened to run into Ito, the former owner of “Norentei.”

“Remember your last regular?” Kawano asked. Just making conversation.

“Oh, yeah. Small guy. Always ordered a small portion.”

Kawano stopped walking.

“A small portion? Of udon?”

“Yeah. Small kake-udon, every day. For about five years. Once he stopped coming, there was nobody else. So I figured, well, might as well close.”

Kawano felt something — not quite a bad feeling. More like a sense of déjà vu.

The next day, she asked the former owner of “Kushiyoshi.”

“My last regular? Sure. Quiet guy. Two skewers of yakitori, every time. Light eater.”

She asked the former owner of “Spice Port.”

“Yeah, there was someone like that. Mini curry. Four times a week. He was the only one left, at the end.”

She asked “Komugiza” too. Same answer. A small man. Always ordered a small amount. Came for years. And by the time he was the only customer left, the shop would close.

Kawano sat down on the kitchen stool and stared at the ceiling.

It seemed that Yasuda — or Ando — had been going to every single restaurant on the shopping street. Every day, a small portion at each one. Quiet, unassuming, invisible. He kept coming until he was the last customer standing. And then, one by one, the shops disappeared.

A light eater who had eaten everything.

At 2:15 p.m., the entrance curtain swayed.

“Small portion, please.”

Yasuda was sitting in his usual seat. Kawano set down the daily special and glanced out at the shopping street.

Across the way, a “Tenant Wanted” sign hung in the window of the old dry cleaner’s. Next to it, the shoe repair shop had its shutter half down.

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