The day dragged, minutes weighed down by something too much to carry. Haruka sat on the small window seat, her favorite spot when the bakery was quiet. Light rain splattered against the glass, accompanying the depressed atmosphere that had lingered since morning.
Natsumi had just shut the shop down. She closed the kitchen away with the final tray, and then returned carrying a small cream-colored envelope.
"Haruka-chan," she whispered. "This. I had it brought to you some days ago. I nearly forgot."
Haruka blinked, eyebrows rising as she looked at the envelope.
"From Kaito."
Her heart pounded lightly, unevenly. She clutched the envelope in her hands, holding it softly—as if it might break if she wasn't excessively gentle.
"I don't know what's in it," Natsumi went on with a warm smile. "But he said. you would know when it was time to read it."
Haruka's breath had caught in her throat. She shook open the envelope with trembling fingers. A simple light blue sticky note was inside—a little creased on the edges, as if left for years in someone's pocket.
Kaito's handwriting was as she remembered: neat but not obsequious, letters that slanted slightly to the right. She read slowly:
"Sometimes, you will not hear the ones who believe in you.
But they are there—stealthy, silent, waiting for you to believe too.
Like me.
– Kaito"
There was a moment of suspended time.
There was nothing else in the room but the soft patter of rain and the muffled thump of her heart. The sticky note was small, but it was a whole universe. As if Kaito had known exactly when these words would be needed—and now she could feel it like he was sitting beside her.
Her eyes welled up, but this time, she didn't wipe them away. Instead, she smiled, a small, trembling smile as warmth crept into the empty spaces that had long echoed inside her.
"You're too kind," she whispered toward the note. "Why are you always."
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to. Kaito's words had already done everything she couldn't say out loud.
The post-it was more than a note. It was a trail. A voice she had longed for—low, steady, hanging without promise. And even though there were only a few words, Haruka could tell: she wasn't alone at all.
She took hold of the little piece of paper gently, then stood up. She walked over to the little wall in her room where she would typically pin things she wanted to remember. The sticky note took its place with the others, slipping into a spot that seemed as if it had been holding for it all along.
Standing behind her, Natsumi watched in silence. She said nothing, but instead placed a cup of tea on the table.
So, in time, Haruka reclined against the seat again, breathing a more regular air.
"He… always has the ability to make me feel seen," she said quietly, half-to-herself. "Without questioning it. Without making me work it."
Natsumi nodded. "A form of kindness not seen everyday."
Haruka nodded once again, gazing still at the sticky note. "And the kind that never goes away."
The rain kept falling. But for the first time, its sound was no longer melancholic. It sounded comforting, as if it enveloped her with an invisible hug.
And in the darkness and memories, Kaito's voice remained—on a sheet of paper, in Haruka's silence, and in the returning strength creeping back into her heart.
She set the teacup aside and sipped slowly. Hot. Comforting. Much like that voice.
That voice she had not yet seen, but couldn't help yearning for.
The voice that never really left.
The voice she would carry with her, wherever her next step will be.