The day was quiet. Softer than normal.

The bakery was closed afternoons, something they only did on occasion unless there was a family issue. Natsumi-obaa-san had a community gathering that she had to attend, so Kaito and Haruka were left to watch the shop for a few hours.

Haruka leaned across the counter, wiping it with slow, steady motions. The radio hummed softly in the background—a low, calming tune that drifted through the sunlight.

Kaito knelt by the fridge, restocking its shelves and singing along to the song, when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen.

And everything changed.

Haruka sensed it right away. The tightness in his shoulders. The slight reduction of the light from his face.

He didn't answer the call. Let it ring out, then flipped the phone over, face down.

Haruka froze, still wiping.

She took a moment to consider. Her chest was constricted with uncertainty—should she say something? Pretend she hadn't seen?

But the silence between them was not the one she was familiar with. It was not biting or slashing. It was different. A doorway she could step through.

She'd said it before she'd been able to stop herself.

"Are you okay?"

Her voice had been soft. Tentative. But it had gotten through.

Kaito's gaze came up. For a moment, his face disintegrated. He wasn't smiling. Wasn't hiding.

Something raw flickered behind his eyes—like a door had been opened and didn't know how to close again.

He sat in the stool and leaned forward, elbows on knees. He didn't answer right away.

Haruka stepped out from behind the counter. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her apron, but she walked over and sat on the floor beside him.

Not too close.

But close enough.

Kaito breathed slowly.

"It was my mom."

He didn't say it like it was dramatic. Just… matter-of-fact. But there was weight to it. Enough to fill the room.

Haruka did not say anything. She didn't need to fill the space. She just needed to fill it.

"We haven't had a real conversation in a while," Kaito went on. "Not since the divorce. It's been… complicated."

Haruka nodded, although he wasn't looking at her. Her presence was steady. Interested but not intrusive.

Kaito tilted his head back, eyes tracking the ceiling lines. "Sometimes, when there's a phone call and she's on the other end, I don't know if I'm more afraid that she's going to scream or cry. Or worse—pretend as if nothing is wrong."

Haruka chewed her lip. Her parents had always disciplined her in silence. But now she understood that sound could be hurtful too.

Kaito glanced sidelong at her. "Sorry. That's a lot."

She shook her head. "You don't have to be sorry."

He smiled. It wasn't large. It wasn't wide. But it was genuine.

And for a few moments, they just sat there—two people with backstories that splintered quietly within them, two people learning to carry the burden, piece by piece.

After a while, when Kaito got up to return to the fridge, Haruka noticed that there was a crumpled sticky note lying next to her water bottle. Different color today. Pale blue.

Her name was written in the same square letters.

She opened it up and read:

"You don't have to tell the whole story. But I hope you know—someone's still here to listen."

She folded the note, fingers poised.

And for the first time that day, the cracking in her chest didn't sting.

They felt… contained.