The door chime gave a single, clear ring. 6:30 AM.
Nami didn’t look up. She leaned on her elbow at the counter, pen scratching a rough sketch of a piece of toast that was—once again—failing to evolve into something edible-looking.
“The usual?”
“Mm.”
Familiar voice. Short, even. Cold in a way that wasn’t cruel—just clean. Like a blade following its rail. He was always like this. Never early, never late. Never extra words. Like some kind of daily subroutine. Functional. Like someone who’d already made peace with the rules.
She didn’t seem to mind. She never had. Mizutori, she’d started calling him. “You ever think of ordering a latte?” she asked, sliding the toast into the toaster. “I finally learned latte art. Haven’t gotten to try it on anyone.”
He looked at her. Briefly. Then away. “Ask someone else.”
“You’re the one who shows up every day. I only drop in when I feel like it.” “We make a weird pair,” she said, sliding the toast into the toaster.
A pause. Then, almost offhand:“I added lemon syrup today. Just a little.” Her tone was casual, but she still watched his face like she was waiting on lab results. “If you hate it, feel free to spit it out. No charge.”
He didn’t answer. The smell of toast filled the space— butter, citrus, a hint of burn. The toaster clicked.
Nami turned to grab a plate—then froze. Snapped her fingers softly. “Oh, shoot.” She reached under the counter, rummaging through a small tin box half-hidden behind the tea jars.
“Lose something?” He asked.
“Yeah,” she muttered. “My semi-mandated, probably-overpriced mango chalk.” She pulled out a small white pill bottle, popped the cap with one hand, and shook out a single capsule into her palm. There was a glittery sticker peeling off the side—some cartoon animal with sunglasses. “Only once every twenty days. You’d think I’d remember.”
“Lucky me, though,” she added, voice light. “Doc says I’m on the minimum maintenance dose. Basically decorative.” She smiled. Then went back to the toaster.
He watched her work in silence. Not fragile. Not delusional. Just... streamlined. Like someone who knew what the world cost and chose a narrow path through it. He could respect that. Even recognize it. Maybe.
His gaze lingered—a second too long—on the bottle. Not the capsule, but the sticker. The way it grinned like the whole thing was a joke for kids. The pills had stopped working for him years ago. And he didn’t think the system was unfair. It just was. Not because someone chose it—just how the numbers broke.
Some people slipped through. Others shattered when no one was looking. She hadn’t shattered. And she wasn’t trying to claw out, either. Just living inside it. Quietly. Like she understood.
She handed over the toast. He didn’t thank her, as usual— but his fingers took it with a softness she hadn’t seen before. She watched him eat in silence. Then asked, like checking a reading— “Well?”
He didn’t look up. Just said, “Didn’t ferment long enough.”
Nami exhaled through her nose. “Leftover dough. Two hours, tops.”
He nodded once. Neutral. Not judgmental.
She didn’t argue. Just leaned back, arms crossed. “You always this fun at breakfast?” She started humming under her breath. Not a tune exactly—just something rhythmic. Grounding. Like the sound a person makes when they don’t want silence to win.
He took another bite. “Only when asked.”
She watched, head tilted slightly, like waiting for a test score to be posted. Only when he swallowed did she speak. “You know, most people don’t eat whatever I hand them without asking.”
He said nothing.
She went back to her sketchpad, pen scratching under a lopsided cartoon face on a slice of bread. It looked vaguely like a squashed pig .
He frowned. Not because it was bad— but because it felt like something from a world he didn’t live in. Something meant for small hands. Something with no violence inside it. “...What’s that supposed to be?”
“Peppa Pig. Trying to design a breakfast for kids. ‘Smiley toast.’ But I suck at drawing cute things.” She crumpled the paper with a sigh. “Guess I’m not cut out for adorable.”
He didn’t reply. Just stood, flipped a coin into the tip jar for the coffee, and walked to the door. The bell rang again as he pushed it open.
“Hey.” She called out—soft, like the flick of a lighter.
He paused.
“You know I save that slice of bread for you every morning, right?”
He didn’t turn. “...Yeah.”
The door clicked shut. Wind slipped through the crack and swirled at her feet before dying out. She stared at the door a long while. Then finally sighed.
“Mizutori,” she muttered. “Such a cat. Not even a thank-you.”