Haruka rinsed flour off her hands in the bakery sink. The sun poured through the window, sending a golden glow over everything it touched. Outside, the sky was that in-between hue—halfway to night, still clinging to the gold of day.

She reached for a towel when she spotted something jammed under the spice rack. A folded square of known color. Her breathing caught.

It was the sticky note again.

She glanced back over her shoulder. Kaito was working up front, filling empty bread trays with his usual quiet efficiency. The faint clinking of metal echoed through the room. He didn't look her way.

Haruka unfolded the note. Pale yellow again.

*"You were great today."*

That was it.

Simple. No hype. No tension.

Just those four words.

And somehow, they hurt more than any compliment she'd ever received in years.

She looked at the scrawl, her chest twisting in ways she didn't quite understand. All her life, compliments had been metered. With strings attached. With eyes watching, weighing, waiting for her to mess up again.

But this note hadn't been sealed to perfection. Not because she had learned something or aced an A+. Simply… because.

Because she was present. Because she had tried. Because she had shown up.

She creased the note into a neat square, then gazed in the direction of the trash can, where the rest had fallen. But her hand lingered this time.

Her other hand went into her apron pocket. She pulled out her wallet—worn and faded, the zipper slightly frayed. She slipped the note into it, pushing it into the crevice behind her ID.

No one would ever see it there. But she would.

Later, when they closed up the bakery in the evening, Kaito gave her a small plastic bag of leftover melonpan. "For your midnight snack," he said, smiling.

Haruka nodded her thanks, her voice stuck in her throat, but her smile softer today.

They walked along the deserted street side by side, with not much to say. But it wasn't the burn of silence. It was filled. Easy.

Like a quilt wrapped around something still healing.

On the corner where they usually separated, Haruka paused.

"Hey, Kaito?"

He stopped and looked around.

She hesitated, words stuck at the back of her teeth. Then, in a moment of courage, she said, "Thank you. For today."

Kaito blinked. Then smiled, warm and constant.

"You did great today," he said again.

And somehow, hearing it a second time made it seem even more real.

That evening, Haruka slept in bed with her wallet beside her pillow. She didn't open it again. Didn't need to.

The words were already there, etched in places more profound than paper ever could.