Chapter Four - A Bakery Opens Late

Elias unlocked the door to Moonlight Crumbs, the jingling bell sounding louder than usual in the quiet morning air. The shop smelled faintly stale — yesterday's flour and butter lingering like a ghost of work already done. He flipped the sign to Open, knowing full well no one would come until the sun set. Daytime customers were rare, if they existed at all.

He didn't mind. The quiet was why he opened at night in the first place.

The bakery's back kitchen was small — barely enough space for one person to move comfortably — but Elias knew every inch of it by heart. The floor creaked differently depending on where you stood, and the countertop had a permanent scar from the time he dropped a tray straight out of the oven. These little imperfections made it his, in a way that no office desk ever had.

He set to work without much thought, sleeves rolled up, hands already reaching for flour and butter. The dough for tonight's batch had to rest for a few hours, and he still needed to check his inventory. after the checking done, he starts to make new bread.

As he kneaded, the sounds of the alley filtered in through the cracked window — the faint chatter of Kobayashi-san talking to a supplier, the soft thud of someone dragging out trash bins, and the distant hum of a delivery truck trying to squeeze down a street far too narrow for its size. This, too, was comfort.

Elias rarely thought about why he chose this life. It wasn't some grand calling. He wasn't chasing childhood dreams or trying to live out a romantic fantasy of owning a charming little bakery. At first, it was just an escape — from meetings, deadlines, the quiet pressure of an empty apartment. But somewhere along the way, the act of baking itself became the only conversation he was good at having — hands to dough, flour to air, butter melting into sugar like second nature.

He glanced at the crooked sign outside, sunlight catching on the uneven brushstrokes Kobayashi painted years ago. Elias could've fixed it by now. He had the money. But every time he thought about replacing it, something in him hesitated, like changing it would make the whole shop mean something else — something more temporary.

The doorbell jingled again, sharp and unexpected this early.

Elias wiped his hands on his apron and stepped out to the front, half-expecting Mira's messy hair and sharp grin — but the door only swung shut against empty air. No customer. No package. Just a faint breeze stirring the edge of the doormat.

He frowned, chalked it up to wind, and went back to his dough.