The Teacher’s Bathroom
The Teacher’s Bathroom
You stay after school for tutoring, and when you realize the student bathrooms are locked, Mr. Tretyak hands you the key to the teacher’s bathroom. A rare honor. A forbidden privilege. You go to unlock the door and… what’s inside is not what you expected.
Is it just a bathroom? (Doubtful.)
Is it an Amazon-style storehouse with supplies dating back decades?
Is it a secret Ramen shop, where an ancient customer slurps in silence, lost in the flavors of the broth?
Or is it something even stranger?
Build suspense. Treat unlocking the door like opening a portal to another world—because it just might be.
Focus on sensory details. What do you hear before you open the door? What do you smell? What’s the first thing that doesn’t make sense?
Establish rules. If this place has a secret, how does it work? Who knows about it? Why is Mr. Tretyak so casual about giving you the key?
React naturally. Does your narrator embrace the mystery? Investigate cautiously? Run? (Or worse, try to order something at the Ramen shop?)
The story must begin with unlocking the teacher’s bathroom.
A detailed description of what’s inside.
The narrator must react in some way—whether it’s curiosity, fear, acceptance, or outright denial.
Some hint that this has happened before. (Why does the key exist? Does someone know?)
House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski (for unsettling, reality-breaking discoveries)
“The Library of Babel” by Jorge Luis Borges (for an ordinary space hiding something vast and bizarre)
Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami (for a secretive, almost magical underworld within everyday life)
The key fits too easily.
It slides into the lock like it was meant to be there, like this was always supposed to happen. The door gives way without resistance, swinging open on well-oiled hinges.
And I step inside.
The air is thick with steam—warm, rich, fragrant. My brain scrambles to adjust. This is not the sterile scent of disinfectant. This is broth. Boiling bones. Simmering fat. Something deeper than hunger stirs in my stomach.
A counter. A narrow wooden bar. Three stools, all occupied.
A woman in a pencil skirt sips from a deep ceramic bowl, her fingers curled protectively around it. A janitor, still in his work uniform, leans forward as he slurps noodles, eyes half-lidded in some kind of quiet, personal bliss. An older man, maybe a teacher, maybe not, sits motionless, simply breathing in the scent of the broth, hands resting on the counter.
No one looks up.
Behind the counter stands the chef. His face is lined, his head shaved, his apron neatly tied. Steam curls around him as he stirs a massive pot, the rich tonkotsu broth rolling in slow, golden waves. With the precision of a sculptor, he lifts two slices of chashu and places them atop a fresh bowl, the pork glistening, the fat almost translucent.
He does not speak. He does not react to my presence. He simply lifts one hand—one slow, deliberate motion—and points to the rear.
I do not ask. I do not hesitate.
This is normal.
I walk past the bar, past the customers lost in their quiet rituals, past the scent of something ancient and perfect. The hallway is narrow—barely enough room to move sideways. At the end, there’s another door. A simple one. No plaque. No sign.
I open it.
Inside is a Tokyo-style bathroom—small, but pristine. Clean white tiles, a compact toilet, a narrow sink. Everything is efficient, tucked into the space with careful precision.
But it is not just a bathroom.
Boxes are stacked against the walls, meticulously labeled. Not with food. Not with restaurant supplies. There are binders. Stacks of old textbooks. A cardboard box filled with forgotten ID cards. A shelf of outdated projectors, their cords neatly coiled, dust settled in their creases.
Every inch of space is used. Nothing is wasted.
I lock the door. Use the bathroom. Wash my hands in the tiny sink. The drain gurgles, as if whispering something too faint to catch.
This is normal.
Right?
I dry my hands on my jeans and step back into the hallway.
The steam greets me like an old friend, curling around my shoulders, sinking into my skin. The scent of tonkotsu—rich, marrow-deep, undeniable—pulls me forward.
I could leave.
I should leave.
But I don’t.
I step toward the counter.
The stool—the fourth stool—is empty. It was always empty. It is waiting.
I sit.
The chef does not look at me, but I know he has seen me. His hands move with a kind of ancient certainty, ladling broth into a bowl that is not symmetrical—one side slightly higher, uneven, imperfect. The broth is thick, milky, the result of hours—days—of patient boiling. He lifts two slices of chashu, lays them with precision, the fat shimmering under the low, yellow light.
The customers do not look at me.
The chef does not ask me what I want.
There is no menu.
The bowl is placed in front of me.
The steam rises.
I do not know a single word in the language spoken here. I do not know the names of the people beside me, or the name of the man who has made this bowl with such care.
But I understand.
The first sip is heaven. The broth clings to my lips, my tongue, the roof of my mouth, coating it in something primal, something perfect. The pork is silk and smoke, the fat dissolving before I can even chew.
I do not speak.
This is not a place for words.
The janitor lifts his bowl, drinking straight from the ceramic, his eyes closing as the last drop of broth slides down his throat. The woman in the pencil skirt lets out a breath—one that sounds dangerously close to a sigh of relief. The older man, the one whose bowl is still untouched, exhales like he is saving this moment, as though he is afraid of what happens when the ramen is gone.
I take another bite.
Then another.
I do not rush.
I do not want this to end.
I glance toward the door—the way out. The hallway looks longer than before, the light dimmer.
I could leave.
I should leave.
But I don’t.
The bowl in front of me is half-empty now, the broth thick at the bottom, clinging to the rim. I glance at the woman beside me, the janitor, the man who still has not eaten.
Have they always been here?
How long have I been here?
I grip my chopsticks tighter.
The ramen is perfect.
The ramen is eternal.
And so, I suspect, am I.