The bakery had changed.
It was quieter.
More somber.
The bell above the door still clanged when customers came in, the ovens still warmed the air with the delicious scent of bread and pastries, but there was something. missing.
As Haruka absent-mindedly wiped the counter, she gazed toward the small pantry in the back, where Kaito used to sneak in before, leaving behind his goofy sticky notes or lounging with a carefree grin against the wall.
Now it was just a quiet, dark corner.
No notes.
No laughter.
Just the hum of the fridge and the beat of the old clock on the wall.
Haruka breathed out slowly and rested against the counter, letting her cloth fall onto the surface.
It had been since the funeral that she hadn't seen Kaito again.
She hadn't been strong enough to approach him that day.
Hadn't been strong enough to say anything when he walked past her, his expression painted in a grief so deep that it was almost as if she couldn't touch it.
She knew.
She truly did.
And yet, the agony in her did not subside.
Haruka's thoughts turned to what the bakery's obachan had said to her—how Kaito had been on leave, helping out his mother, making arrangements for the funeral.
And how, until they had heard otherwise, they shouldn't look for him on his routes again.
Haruka's ribcage contracted at the prospect.
In all the time she had known Kaito—these quiet months when he had become such a steady, comforting presence in her life—he had never once mentioned his family.
Never spoken of his grandfather.
Never even hinted at the burden he would have carried.
She recalled every phrase they had spoken—every smile, every exchanged look, every awkward silence—and realized with a twist of pain that it had all been about her.
Her fears.
Her struggles.
Her tiny victories.
And Kaito had listened.
Softly.
Tragically.
But he had remained quiet.
His wars are hidden.
The revelation stung.
Haruka's palm over her chest, the struggling, pained thud against her ribcage.
Had she been so inconsiderate of herself that she hadn't even seen him suffering?
Had she been so consumed by herself that she never even thought to ask?
Another surge of shame washed over her.
She had seen the signs, now that she'd realized it—the way Kaito's smile would sometimes hesitate when he believed she didn't notice him, the way he would sometimes look out the window a little too long, a little too quietly.
She had just been too caught up in her repairs to notice.
The sticky notes flashed back to her mind—the bits of encouragement he had left for her, day in day out, even when she did not notice she needed them.
He was giving so much.
And she had accepted it all without even noticing.
Haruka slowly turned around, her gaze falling on the corkboard beside the pantry where she had pinned the last sticky note he left for her.
"Even when you're little today, you're a light to someone."
She gulped hard.
Was that what Kaito had glimpsed in her?
A light, even when she had merely been hanging on by her fingertips?
And yet, she had never once thought of being a light to him.
The door chimed once again as the murmur of two tourists filtered through, speaking softly in an unknown language.
Instinctively, Haruka rose to her feet, bowing with a smile and making her way to attend to them.
Her movements were automatic—forced smile, restrained thanks, delicate folding of bread into paper bags.
As they left, the silence surrounded her again, thicker than ever.
Haruka rested against the counter, staring blankly at the door.
She thought of Kaito's grandfather—the man she had never met, never even heard of.
She asked herself what their relationship had been.
Was he the one who had taken care of Kaito when his parents were not around?
Was he the one who had taught Kaito to be so gentle, so kind with broken hearts like hers?
A lump swelled in Haruka's throat.
She wished she had known.
Wished she had asked.
Wished she had been there in a way that mattered.
But now all she could do was stand here and feel the suffocating crush of sorrow that Kaito had left behind.
Not anger.
Not disappointment.
Just sorrow.
And something deeper—something that felt an awful lot like regret.
Outside, the sky had gone dark, clouds gathering like they did on the day of the funeral.
Haruka stepped away from the counter and to the front window, her forehead resting against the cold glass lightly.
Rain was coming.
She watched the first raindrops fall and splatter onto the pavement, the world outside melting into a soft, gray haze.
For the first time in years, Haruka did not feel trapped behind the glass.
She did not feel like the world was closing in on her.
Instead, she sensed how huge it truly was—and how easy it was to lose someone if you weren't looking.
The wind whistled again and rang the bell over the door, but this time only once, before the door swung shut again.
Haruka did not move.
She just stood there, watching the rain, feeling the slow, steady ache of missing someone who wasn't hers to miss.
Maybe when Kaito came back—if he came back—she would be different.
Not the broken girl who needed rescuing.
But someone who gave something back.
Someone who listened.
Someone who could be a light for him, too.
Haruka closed her eyes for an instant, breathing in the scents of baking bread, rain, and distant, fading summer.
And for the very first time since Kaito left, she whispered a quiet promise to the empty air.
"Next time. I'll be there for you, too."