The next morning, Haruka arrived at the bakery before she thought she would. The sky was lavender-hued when she pushed through the back door Kaito had shown her the night before. Her backpack felt less heavy somehow, as if her body had offered to carry less of the intangible weight.

Inside, the smell of flour and yeast was already there. She spotted Kaito working on dough on the counter, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and hair slightly disheveled.

"Morning!" he yelled, grinning as he spotted her. "You're early."

"I couldn't sleep much," Haruka muttered, standing awkwardly at the door to the room.

Kaito nodded and inclined his head towards a hanging spare apron on the wall. "Wanna try helping today?"

Haruka hesitated. Her instincts shouted to tell him no—to stay behind, to observe, to not screw it up. But then she remembered that single bite of melon pan. That small smile. And something in her ached to try.

She nodded.

Apron on, hands washed, she settled down beside Kaito at the counter. He gave gentle instructions, simple to follow and unhurried. Her hands were recalcitrant at first, clunky even, but he did not say a word.

"Just work it like clay," he said once, watching her prod the dough as if it were fragile.

They worked in silence for a little while. Haruka tried not to think, only listening for the feel of the dough, the consistency of the flour, the rhythm of it all.

But then—

One of the trays slipped from her fingers. It teetered on the edge of the counter and dropped to the floor with a loud clatter, and three rolls of half-proofed dough rolled all over the floor.

Haruka stiffened. Her chest constricted. Her hands began to shake before she could halt them.

"Sorry—" she said, already backing away. Her gaze went to the door. "I didn't mean to—I can clean it—"

"Haruka," Kaito said, firm but even.

She gazed at him. Prepared for a lecture. Or worse, for that expression—the one adults always wore when they regretted giving her a chance.

But it didn't arrive.

Instead, Kaito stooped, picked up the tray without effort, and grinned. "It's okay. Happens to me every time."

She blinked.

"You were doing well, too," he continued, brushing off a dusting of flour on her sleeve lightly. "You learn quickly."

The fear in her faltered, perplexed by the act of kindness. She looked at the smear on the floor, then back to Kaito.

"Yeah?" she said, her voice smaller than she'd wanted.

"Really. Don't let one mistake spoil everything."

He motioned for her to help him reset the tray. She did, still quietly, but with steadier fingers.

When they had finished setting up the new rolls, Haruka noticed something on the edge of the prep counter. A small, pale yellow sticky note. Her name was written at the top in block letters.

She took it and read:

Every person has their first day. You’re not alone.

Her throat tightened again—but this time, not with fear.

She folded the note carefully and slipped it into her pocket.

She didn't smile yet.

But her heart did.