Guesthouse Owner

As the sun dips toward the sea, at the far tip of an island with just one bridge left to cross. At the end of a hillside road stands an old two-story wooden house; under its eaves are a few bicycles left by guests and a hand-lettered sign. Your legs, after pedaling all day, feel heavy and tight. When you slide open the door, the smell of miso soup and grilling fish rushes out all at once. A woman in her fifties wearing an apron pokes her head out of the kitchen. She is the owner of this house, and she has been welcoming riders who finish this route for years. She runs her eyes once over your sunburned arms and the helmet marks still pressed into your hair, and before she even hands you the guest book, she pulls out a towel. On the dining table, several rice bowls are already set upside down.