Secrets In The Broth

Secrets In The Broth

-A Wiki Wiki Romantic Suspense Story-

I walk into Lao Mei’s noodle shop, the bell above the door ringing a soft, familiar chime. The air inside is thick with the scent of simmering broth and fried garlic—an aroma I’ve known for years, though today it feels different, like I’m intruding on a memory I can’t quite touch.

The warm steam from the kitchen hits me first. It wraps around me like a blanket—comforting, yet strangely unsettling. I haven’t been here in so long. My feet feel heavy as they carry me across the worn wooden floor, the creaking boards groaning beneath my weight. The place is almost exactly the same: faded red walls, old photographs telling stories of a Honolulu Chinatown long past.

The restaurant was founded by Lao Mei’s mother many years ago, long before I ever walked through that door. Even now, it feels like a tribute to her—the woman who built this place from scratch. But the air feels colder tonight, despite the heat outside. A silence lingers in the corners, one that never used to be there.

Lao Mei’s voice breaks the stillness—sharp, yet welcoming.
“Ah, you came back,” she says, her eyes flicking up from the pot she’s stirring.

The sight of her—a woman I once knew better than anyone—twists something inside me.

It’s been years since we last spoke, since we broke up with no real explanation. That had been on me. I left, thinking the world was bigger than the narrow alleyways of Chinatown. But now, with the scent of her cooking in my lungs, the memories come rushing back.

“You still making your famous noodles?” I ask, leaning on the counter, my voice trying to sound casual. My heart beats a little faster than it should. I didn’t expect to feel like this.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she moves with practiced grace, serving a steaming bowl to the customer by the window. I watch her—how she holds herself: strong, composed, but something’s shifted. There’s a guardedness in her movements that wasn’t there before.

The silence stretches. I wonder if she even wants me here. She’s never been good at hiding her feelings, but tonight she’s staring at the food like it’s the only thing that matters.

I sit at the nearest table, my hands resting on the cool, rough wood. The chair creaks as I shift. The gentle clinking of bowls and soft murmur of conversation drift through the room, distant, like I’m listening through fog.

Then she approaches, and her presence pulls me back.

Our eyes meet, and for a breathless moment, I see the past in hers—the late nights, the shared laughter, the love we thought would never fade. But all of it is buried now, deep beneath years of silence.

“You’re here for the noodles?” she asks. Her voice is cooler now, but I know she’s not just talking about food.

I try to smile, but it comes out strained. “I guess I’m here for... us,” I say, the words slipping out too fast. I wish I could take them back. They hang in the air like smoke—thick, suffocating.

She studies me for a long moment, then turns without a word and walks away.

Minutes tick by. The scent of broth grows heavier, mingling with the faint smell of dust clinging to the corners of the room. The silence presses in, too loud, the space between us too wide to cross. I watch steam rising from my bowl, mesmerized by the curling tendrils. I used to love how the steam carried the flavors. Tonight, it feels like it’s hiding something.

The door chimes again.

A man steps inside—one who doesn’t belong here. He’s in a tailored suit, posture stiff and guarded. His gaze sweeps the room like he’s looking for someone. He doesn’t notice me. His eyes land on Lao Mei, and I see the change in her.

She’s still at the stove, her back turned, but I feel it—her body tenses, movements tighter.

The man sits at a far table, eyes lingering on the door before pulling out his phone. His fingers type too fast. He keeps glancing between the door and the counter like he’s waiting for something. Or someone.

And something about him feels wrong.

The tightness starts in my gut, rising like bile. Something is happening here that shouldn't be.

I watch Lao Mei’s hands tremble slightly as she serves another bowl of noodles, and for the first time in years, I wonder what she’s gotten herself into. She’s always been strong, always kept the restaurant going no matter what. But there’s a weight on her now—one I don’t recognize.

The man doesn’t order. Just sits there, fingers tapping the table, exhaling slowly. His presence is like the sun disappearing behind a storm cloud. The atmosphere shifts.

Lao Mei doesn’t look at him, but her movements grow more deliberate, more cautious. She’s bracing herself.

Finally, the man glances her way. I see her face harden—not just avoidance, but fear. She’s waiting. For him? For something else?

I can’t take it anymore. I rise and walk to the counter, each step dragging.

“Who is he?” I ask.

She doesn't respond at first. When she does, her voice is almost drowned in the soft noise of the restaurant.
“It’s not what you think,” she says, wiping the counter for the second time. Her hands still tremble.

“He’s just a customer,” she adds, but her voice catches.

“Just a customer?” I echo. I hear the lie in her voice. “Mei, what’s going on?”

She won’t meet my eyes. For a moment, I wonder if I’m the last person she’d confide in. But then her eyes flick to the man.

“He’s not the only one,” she says softly. “There are things that happen here—things no one talks about. Not even you. This isn’t a place you want to get involved with.”

I lean in, the weight of her words pressing into my chest.
“What are you doing, Mei? What are you mixed up in?”

Her jaw tightens. She shakes her head. “I don’t need anyone’s help. I’ve been doing this on my own. I’m fine.”

But the way she says it makes it clear: she’s anything but fine.

I return to my seat, mind spinning. The man finishes his meal silently, every movement precise. He leaves without a word. But as he passes me, I catch a glimpse of his face—pale, drawn, like someone who's seen too much. He wasn’t here for noodles. He came to settle something.

Lao Mei watches him leave. Only then does she turn to me.

“Is this what you came for?” she asks quietly. “To get involved? To stir up things that should’ve stayed buried?”

I don’t answer right away. Something in her voice, her gaze, clicks into place—like the final piece of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving.

I’ve already crossed the line.

“I didn’t come to fix things, Mei,” I say, voice thick. “I just came to understand.”

The door chimes again, louder than before.

And I realize: I’m already too deep into the broth of her secrets to pull myself out.

🍜 THE END 🍜

Author's note

Secrets in the Broth is a quiet, unsettling kind of love story—told from the POV of a man who walks back into a familiar place only to find the woman he once loved… isn’t quite the same.

The noodles still simmer. The place still smells like memory. But there’s a weight to it now. A silence that wasn’t there before.

This story is about what gets left unsaid. About people who carry things they don’t talk about. About how love can linger, even when trust has faded—and how sometimes, coming back doesn’t mean finding closure. It means opening a door that might’ve been better left shut.

Here in Hawaii, these kinds of places exist. Tucked into backstreets. Run by women with strong hands and tired hearts. And sometimes, if you look closely, the real story isn’t on the menu.

Thanks for reading. Stay a little longer... but don’t ask too many questions.