Chapter Eleven - Five Days, Five Lessons, One Loaf

On her first official shift, Hikari arrived five minutes early, standing outside the bakery door like she was afraid to knock. The Help Wanted sign fluttered faintly beside her, edges already curling from the humidity.

Elias opened the door, and there she was — slightly wrinkled uniform, notebook clutched so tightly to her chest it bent, hair damp from running the whole way there.

"Good evening!" she blurted, bowing so sharply her backpack slid off her shoulder and nearly took her down with it.

Elias sighed softly. "You can just come in."

"Oh! Right! Sorry!" Another bow.

She was so tense, Elias could practically see her vibrating with nerves as she stepped inside. She followed him into the kitchen like a baby duck imprinting on its very confused mother, scribbling notes furiously as he showed her around — where the towels were, how to label the flour bins, how to check the proofing dough.

It was too much information at once. Elias could see it happening — the overload glaze settling over her eyes before they'd even started baking.

The first disaster came when she mistook salt for sugar and poured half a jar directly into the cookie dough. Her face went pale, hands frozen mid-pour.

"I ruined it," she whispered.

Elias didn't even blink. He took the bowl, dumped the whole thing into the trash, and slid a clean bowl toward her. "We start over."

Hikari stared at him like he'd just performed some kind of ancient bakery spell.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

The second shift was a little easier. Hikari didn't bow as much, and she only spilled flour once — which Elias considered progress.

She asked questions — so many questions. Why do you proof dough at room temperature instead of the fridge sometimes? Why does the oven have a separate setting just for steam? What happens if you forget the baking soda?

Elias answered each one, some with gruff one-word replies, others with a quiet patience that surprised even him. She was still clumsy, still far too eager to help even when helping slowed everything down — but at least she was curious.

That afternoon, Mira showed up to buy cookies and lingered at the counter long enough to watch Hikari knock over a tray of freshly cleaned measuring cups.

"Flour gremlin's getting better, huh?" Mira teased, watching Hikari scramble to pick everything up.

"She's trying," Elias muttered.

"And you haven't fired her, so that's basically love."

Elias pretended not to hear.

By the third night, Hikari stopped writing everything down.

She remembered how Elias liked the towels folded (in precise thirds), remembered to check the oven temp without being reminded, even remembered to pre-sift the powdered sugar so it wouldn't clump in the glaze.

Her hands were still a little clumsy, but she was learning the kitchen's rhythm — the way flour dust hung differently in the air at night, how the oven door liked to stick if you opened it too fast, how Elias' hum meant the dough was turning out right.

She still panicked when she spilled an entire pitcher of milk across the counter — but when Elias just handed her a towel instead of getting mad, her whole posture unclenched.

"Thanks for not yelling," she mumbled.

Elias frowned. "Why would I yell?"

Hikari didn't answer right away. She just focused on wiping up the mess, slower and more careful this time.

It was at the end of her fourth shift that Hikari asked, voice soft and hesitant:

"Um… can I try making something?"

Elias, halfway through checking the next day's flour supply, glanced up. "What kind of something?"

"Just an idea," she said, twisting her fingers together. "I was thinking—what if we made melon bread, but filled with honey and black sesame paste instead of melon flavor?"

Elias raised an eyebrow. "Why that?"

Hikari flushed. "I dunno. It just sounds… warm? Like something you'd want to eat when you can't sleep."

Elias knew exactly that feeling.

"Alright," he said. "We'll try it tomorrow."

On the fifth night, Hikari's hands shook a little as she kneaded her own dough. It was too sticky at first, then too dry, and Elias had to guide her wrists so she wouldn't accidentally overwork it.

But she didn't give up.

She talked to the dough — soft murmurs Elias pretended not to hear. Encouragements, threats, tiny apologies. Elias knew that habit well; his own flour listened to more confessions than any person ever had.

The honey glaze went on just before baking, catching the soft light of the oven like a promise half-kept.

Mira arrived halfway through, the scent hitting her the second she opened the door. "What is that and why does it smell like I need it immediately?"

Hikari stood behind the counter, still flour-dusted, holding the first warm roll in both hands like a fragile treasure.

"I made it," she said quietly. "Do you… want to try?"

Mira didn't even hesitate. She took a massive bite, crumbs falling down her sweater.

Chew. Pause. Another bite.

"Holy—okay, kid, you might actually be a genius," Mira declared, mouth still full. "This is ridiculous."

Hikari's whole face glowed — so bright, Elias swore it made the bakery's tired walls shine a little, too.

By lunchtime, the honey sesame rolls were completely gone. Customers asked if they were seasonal, if there would be more tomorrow, if they could reserve some in advance. Elias act calm and said there would be more, hearing this some customer that loved the taste book for the honey sesame rolls. 

Hikari feels proud, she even let out a relieved tears while grinning.

After closing, Elias handed Hikari a small notebook — thick paper, soft cover, meant for recipes that get dusted with flour and smudged with butter.

"Keep your recipes here," he said. "Every baker needs a book."

Hikari held it with both hands, like it was the first real gift she'd ever been given.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The bakery had always been his burden alone, every cookie a conversation with ghosts.

Now there were two sets of hands. Two pairs of feet moving through the small kitchen. Two beating hearts filling the silence.

And somehow, that made the whole place warmer.