It was the most hectic morning Haruka had witnessed since she started frequenting the bakery. 

The air was sweet with the smell of cinnamon and sugar, and the small shop buzzed with the sound of conversation, footsteps, and the bell above the door chiming constantly.

Haruka had just helped an older man choose a loaf of anpan when Kaito called out from the prep area, "Hey, Haruka, can you carry that tray of orders to the front counter?"

She nodded, her hands faintly flour-dusted, and picked up the tray of pre-boxed pastries with care. Six sets in total, attractively arranged—special orders for a corporate customer, Kaito had mentioned before.

Haruka's hand was steady. At least, she thought so.

As she walked around the corner, her foot caught slightly on the mat. The tray tilted.

Time froze.

The boxes slid. Her fingers grasped wildly for balance. But it was too late.

The tray dropped.

It clattered to the ground with a loud clang. Boxes flew open. Buns and croissants scattered, some of them dented, some upside down, one of them crushed under the rim of the tray.

The shop fell silent.

Haruka stared down at the wreckage, her face pale.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, already kneeling, hands trembling as she reached for the boxes. "I didn't mean to— I can fix this—"

But her fingers were shaking too much. The boxes wouldn’t close right. Her eyes were stinging.

Then she heard footsteps. Light ones.

The bakery owner, Kaito’s grandmother, knelt beside her.

“It’s alright, dear,” she said gently, placing a soft hand on Haruka’s shoulder.

“I ruined the order,” Haruka whispered, ashamed. “They were important.”

“They’re just pastries,” the old woman said with a kind smile. “You’re much more important than that.”

Haruka looked up, startled.

“You’re more than one small mistake,” she said again, firmer this time. “You hear me?”

The words sank in slowly. Like honey on warm toast.

Kaito appeared from the kitchen with a fresh tray. “We’ve got backups. Don’t worry,” he added with a wink.

Haruka helped clean up the mess. This time, her fingers were steadier. The shame didn’t leave right away, but something warm curled quietly inside her chest.

Later that day, while she was wiping down the front counter, she found a new sticky note tucked just beneath the cash register.

"One mistake doesn't erase all your yesterdays—or all your tomorrows."

She didn't cry.

But her hands paused for a moment.

Then she folded the note carefully, like something delicate. And tucked it into her wallet, along with the first one.

Not everything had to be perfect.

Maybe she didn't, either.