It was one of those days—the kind where nothing made sense, and everything felt just a little off.
Since sunrise, I'd been wandering the city with my stomach protesting like a spoiled noble—growling, twisting, practically threatening a coup if I didn't feed it soon. Every step I took echoed one thought: food… now.
Then, as if the gods had finally noticed me, I spotted it. Down a narrow side street, half-hidden between two noisy stalls, was a tiny takoyaki stand. A modest little joint with a cracked wooden sign, steam rising from the grill, and the smoky aroma of battered octopus balls drifting through the air like an invitation. Jackpot.
The guy manning the stand? He looked like he'd stepped straight out of an old-school cartoon. Curly black hair, a massive mustache that curled at the ends, a hairnet clinging for dear life, and a stained apron tied over his round belly. He barely looked up as I approached—just grunted and jabbed a thumb at the menu board.
"This ain't charity. You wanna eat, you pay."
Fair enough.
I nodded. "How much for a set?"
He squinted at me. "Four coppers for five pieces."
"Sweet." I reached into my coin pouch, ready for that familiar clink of copper—
And froze.
No weight.
I dug deeper. Nothing but platinum coins. Platinum. Who the hell carries royal-grade currency to buy street food?
There was a full second of silence while I debated my life choices. I could lie. Run. Flip the table and bolt. But instead, my hunger won.
"…I don't have any copper," I admitted. "Will you take four platinum?"
The old man blinked. Once. Twice. His jaw didn't drop, but his mustache twitched violently like it wanted to scream on his behalf.
"P-Platinum? You serious? Girl, that's enough to buy the entire cart!"
I shrugged, trying to stay cool while my stomach sounded like it was staging a riot. "Think of it as… a donation. Or emotional support money. Just give me the food."
He stared at me like I'd just announced I was the lost heir to the throne. But finally—reluctantly—he fired up the grill.
The sizzle was pure music. I watched as he skillfully flipped each piece, golden and crisp on the outside, soft and gooey on the inside. Topped with sweet sauce, seaweed flakes, and a sprinkle of magic (probably just bonito, but hey—it felt magical).
And when I took that first bite?
Heaven.
Warm, savory, perfectly crisp. In that moment, it wasn't about the money, or the awkward conversation, or the fact I'd just tipped a hundred times more than necessary. It was about finally getting something normal in a life that had been anything but.
One bite, and suddenly—today didn't seem so bad.
Note to self: check your coin purse before making street food transactions. Unless you enjoy turning every snack run into a full-blown saga.
Just another day in Graaswell.