She was giving him little cookies from behind the counter. Now she walked over — all 140 cm of her — with a handful of chocolate. He tried to take only one. She shoved them all in his pocket. He had ordered toast, and yet other things continued to arrive. Mama brought over a chilled plastic cup with a pull-off lid. She tried to open it, couldn’t, told him to open it. What was it? Some kind of “egg dish.” He wasn’t that hungry. He had had a terrible night of sleep. He felt a bit battered. Was off kilter. Dented brain syndrome. But the sight of Mama moving around, laughing, smiling, still running Kumata — even though her husband passed a few years ago — was undenting things.

— Craig Mod, Day 6: Kiso-Fukushima to Narai, Between Two Mountains, 2025