The days went by, but Haruka had reached a standstill somewhere in time.
The bakery still opened every morning. Customers still came, still ordered their regular sweet bean buns and croissants. The same bell rang when the door was opened. The same flour dust danced in the sunbeam from the window.
But to Haruka, everything was beige.
The light seemed less bright. The laughter is less warm. Even the bread, once warm and comforting, now tasted like nothing.
Kaito still hadn't come back.
And with every passing day, the space he left behind seemed to grow colder, like a cup of tea left untouched on the table.
Haruka didn't let it show. She still worked. Still wore her apron. Still washed the trays and set out the displays. But it was different now.
She no longer waited to hear the sound of a scooter at the door. She stopped glancing at the clock around the time he would arrive. She didn't hover by the front when packages were delivered—she just took the boxes in silence and nodded at the odd driver.
It was easier to pretend that she wasn't waiting anymore.
"Haruka-chan," Natsumi's grandmother had told her that afternoon, drying her hands with a kitchen towel, "I want you to take this."
She had given her a small envelope, pale pink with a flower design in the corner. Haruka hesitated, accepting it, her eyebrows scrunching.
"What is this?"
"Your pay," the woman said matter-of-factly. "You've been helping so much. It's long overdue."
Haruka blinked. "But I… I didn't—
"You did," the woman said, smiling. "And you're not just helping anymore. You're part of the bakery now."
Haruka stood still, the envelope in her hand suddenly feeling too heavy.
She bowed slightly, murmuring a thank-you out of reflex.
But as she walked to the back room, the envelope clutched in her palm, something twisted deep inside her.
It was the first time she had been paid for her work.
She should have been content. Proud, even.
But she was empty.
The reason she had begun working there wasn't out of passion or choice.
It was because of debt.
Because she had no money.
Because she had fainted on the street and Kaito had instructed her to remain.
Because Kaito had smiled and said that she could assist in the bakery in exchange.
Kaito.
This labor, this rhythm she was used to—he was the one who had gotten it all started.
Without him, it was as if putting on something that no longer fit. As though living in a story she hadn't written.
She sat on the wooden stool behind the shop, the letter still untouched on her thigh.
The wind carried the sweet aroma of cinnamon and yeast bread.
She looked up at the sky, now beginning to redden with the approaching sunset.
"He was the one who made me feel useful again…" she whispered to nothing.
And now that he had gone, everything felt hollow once more. Like a ghost town where no one was left to call her name.
She remembered the very first time Kaito had ever made her laugh, and how strange and foreign the feeling had been. How it cracked, something thawed up inside her chest.
The ice was creeping now.
She hadn't jotted anything in her journal for days. She hadn't read any verse. Even her diary remained under her pillow.
Words did not flow naturally anymore.
The last thing she'd written was that note she'd jammed into the paper bag. She hadn't looked at it since. Couldn't.
"Are you okay, Haruka-chan?" Natsumi's voice called from behind the back door.
Haruka turned her head back over her shoulder and nodded uncertainly. "Yeah. Just needed some air."
Natsumi didn't press any further. She just gave a small wave and disappeared indoors.
Haruka sighed and rested her head back against the wall.
Loneliness was familiar. It was once her only solace. But having experienced something warmer—friendship, comfort, companionship—returning to that loneliness was cruel.
And worse, it was no longer loneliness. It was missing someone.
She wished Kaito were okay.
That he would remember the bakery. The sticky notes. Her.
She wished he would ever come back.
And she hated that part of her still kept holding on to the hope the door would open one day and he'd be standing there, smiling like nothing ever occurred, with another drink she never ordered.
Reality didn't offer that kind of forgiveness.
So she stood up, shook off her apron, and went back inside.
The aroma of sweet bread was overwhelming, but it no longer made her hungry.
She put the envelope into her bag, still sealed, and went back to wiping the counter.
The shop bell rang.
She didn't look up.