Shirosato's morning light was different. More gentle. It poured gently down the thin alleys, skipping across the tile rooftops in pale gold. Haruka walked slowly, the paper in her hand a bit creased—the one Kaito had written on, giving her the bakery's address.

Each move towards the destination made her feel as if she was breaking. Her fingers remained curled around the strap of her backpack. She didn't know why her palms were moist. It wasn't like she'd have to do something.

She just didn't want to mess things up.

The bell above the bakery door rang when she opened it. The aroma of warmth greeted her first—yeasty, buttery, sweet. Her stomach, to her shame, growled. She hadn't eaten anything solid for over a day.

A woman with grey hair behind the counter looked up. Her hair was grey, and she had it pulled up into a bun. She wore a pink apron with a small sunflower design.

Haruka remained motionless, not knowing what to say.

But the woman smiled. Not wide. Not cheerful. Just. relaxed. Like she'd been waiting for her.

"You must be Haruka-chan, right?" the woman said. "Come in. Sit. You look like you haven't had anything warm this morning."

Haruka blinked. She nodded once, then stepped inside hesitantly, like a cat making new territory.

The woman didn't ask questions. She didn't say Tokyo. Or Kaito. Or why some girl like Haruka would turn up on her doorstep with dark circles under her eyes and a defensive expression.

Instead, she moved behind the counter for a second and reappeared with a small plate—a warm roll just out of the oven, steam curling up from it, and a glass of milk.

"It's melon pan," she said. "Just baked. Try it."

Haruka lowered herself slowly, hands in her lap. She looked at the bread for several seconds, almost as if she was not afraid to defile something sacred by touching it. Then she took it up, finally.

It was a tad crispy on the crust. The inside soft and fluffy. Sweetness not overwhelming—just right to make her think of something pleasant. Something secure.

She ate another bite. And then another.

And somewhere in between the third bite and the soft ring of the glass on the table, something shifted.

Her shoulders eased just a bit.

The strain around her mouth relaxed.

And then, tiny as to hardly register—a smile.

Not for anyone. Not for the world. Just herself.