Morning mist still clung outside the bakery window, pale and soft as a memory. Inside, the air began to be filled with the scent of melting butter and warm sugar—familiar, comforting, and almost enough to hide the weight pressing against Haruka's chest.
Almost.
She worked silently, arranging trays in the display case with mechanical movements. Her motions were practiced, but distant, as if she were moving underwater.
Natsumi watched from behind the cashier counter, drying her hands on her apron. She didn't say anything for a moment, allowing the silence to stretch.
Then, in her gentle voice, she spoke, "Haruka-chan."
Haruka turned halfway. "Yes?"
The older woman inclined her head toward the back. "Would you sit with me for a while? I've made some tea."
Haruka hesitated, glancing at the half-stocked display case. "I haven't finished—
It can wait," Natsumi answered, already walking toward the small table at the rear of the kitchen.
Haruka followed, her hands still covered with flour. The kettle was gently whistling on the burner, and two tea cups were neatly placed on a wooden tray, with some sweet potato manju.
They sat together.
The silence between them was soft, like an old, comforting blanket. But Haruka could feel Natsumi's gaze, and after a few minutes, the older woman finally spoke.
"You've been even quieter than usual lately."
Haruka lowered her eyes to her tea. "I didn't notice."
"I may be old, but I'm not blind," Natsumi said gently, a small smile spreading across her lips. "You're carrying something heavy, aren't you?"
Haruka gripped her teacup tighter, the steaming hot air curling around her fingers. She didn't know what to say.
Not right away.
"I just…" she began, her voice low. "I was accustomed to having someone with me."
Natsumi didn't interrupt. She waited.
"And now that he's gone, I feel like I forgot how to be okay by myself."
It was the first time Haruka said the words out loud.
The first time she admitted how deeply Kaito's departure had unsettled her.
Natsumi's eyes softened, comprehending without pushing. "Ah," she murmured, as if she grasped more than the words.
"I don't even know why he means so much," Haruka continued, her voice trembling slightly. "It's not like we've known each other for years. But…"
"But he made you feel seen," Natsumi finished gently.
Haruka blinked. Then nodded slowly.
He's. nice," she whispered. "But not the kind of nice that makes you feel like you owe them. His nice is. quiet. Considerate. Like he wasn't even thinking about doing it."
She swallowed, trying to steady her voice. "He didn't ask questions I couldn't answer. He didn't push. He just. stayed.
There was a pause before Haruka added, even more quietly, "And now he's gone, and no one knows why."
Natsumi poured Haruka more tea, her actions slow and methodical. "Sometimes people do slip away quietly," she said. "Not because they want to hurt us, but because life does not always give us the chance to say goodbye."
Haruka nodded again, though her throat tightened.
She had not meant to say so much.
But something about the old woman's presence—the warm tea, the soft clink of porcelain—unlocked something inside her she hadn't planned to share.
"I used to think people were only kind because they wanted something from you," Haruka confessed. "That if someone stayed, it was only temporary. It always felt that way growing up."
Natsumi didn't look surprised. She simply reached out and gently placed her hand over Haruka's.
"But Kaito wasn't like that," Haruka mumbled.
"No, he wasn't."
Suddenly, Haruka's eyes burned. She blinked hard, trying to hold back tears. But they fell anyway, hot and unwelcome.
"I didn't even get to thank him properly," she said, dabbing quickly at her eyes. "Or say goodbye."
"You still can," Natsumi said, her hand slightly tightening on hers. "Maybe not now. Maybe not in an active way. But our hearts have more room than we know. You can still keep it there."
Haruka breathed out a breath she hadn't even realized she was holding.
It didn't change the facts. Kaito was still gone. The hurt still remained.
But for the first time in days, the void was slightly less oppressive.
"I'm sorry," Haruka whispered, trying to pull her hand away, humiliated by her tears.
But Natsumi merely smiled and shook her head. "Don't be. Tears are like spring rain. Sometimes we need them for something new to grow."
Haruka gave a small, tearful laugh. Gentle, but genuine.
They sat in silence once more, sipping their now slightly cooled tea.
Haruka had no clue what would happen next. If Kaito would ever come back. Or if she would ever be able to figure out why he had left.
But in that moment, wrapped in warmth and gentle understanding, she felt like maybe—just maybe—she could move forward.
Despite the fact that it still hurt.
Because maybe, just maybe, she didn't have to carry it all on her own.