Chapter Twelve - Flour, Ghosts, and a Drawer Full of Memories

Thursday night started like any other.

The bakery was quiet after closing, only the hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of Elias wiping down the counter. Hikari stood nearby, wiping down shelves and checking the ingredients shelf life, like Elias had asked.

"Sensei," she called softly. She decided to call him that sometimes, half-joking but also because it felt right. "This flour's weird."

Elias glanced over. "Weird how?"

Hikari held up the bag — it was open, but faintly damp at the edges, like it had been left too close to steam. Not usable.

"Alright," Elias sighed. "Toss it. Check the rest."

It turned out several ingredients were on the edge of expiration — yeast gone sluggish, sesame seeds starting to smell too oily, and a whole bag of walnuts with a suspiciously stale scent.

"We're low on almost everything," Hikari said, frowning at the sparse shelves.

Elias scratched the back of his neck. "We'll restock tomorrow."

"But sensei," Hikari glanced at the clock, "where do you even keep extra stock? Do you have a supplier who delivers super fast?"

Elias shook his head. "There's some at… the house."

Hikari's head tilted. "The house?"

Elias didn't answer right away.

She'd heard about it from Mira — the old family house Elias never talked about. The one Mira said still smelled like flour and ghosts.

"We'll go now," Elias said quietly, already untangling his apron strings. "Might as well."

The walk to Elias' old house only took seven minutes, but it felt longer.

Hikari walked beside him, arms swinging slightly, humming something under her breath to break the silence. Elias didn't hum back. His mind was already wandering — footsteps following an old path his body remembered even though his heart didn't want to.

The house was a machiya, old and narrow, tucked between buildings that felt too modern around it. The wood had darkened with age, and the windows held onto dust like a second skin.

Elias unlocked the door, and the scent hit him first.

Not bad — just old air and wooden floors, mixed with something faintly sweet. A ghost of baking that hadn't happened in years.

"Whoa," Hikari whispered, stepping inside behind him. "This place is… kinda beautiful."

Elias didn't answer. His feet moved automatically, leading her down the narrow hall to the back room where supplies were kept. Flour, sugar, sealed jars of preserved yuzu peel — all the overflow he kept here when the bakery's storage ran low.

While Hikari sorted through what they needed, Elias wandered — feet drifting toward the room he never visited if he could help it.

The memorial room.

His parents' framed photos stood side by side, soft flowers placed in a ceramic cup below them — dried out, forgotten. He should have replaced them weeks ago.

He didn't mean to touch the photos, but his hand found them anyway. His father's calm smile, his mother's flour-dusted sleeves captured forever.

The memories hit fast and sharp — the smell of his mother's hands kneading dough, his father's laugh when the first loaf came out too dense but still perfect. Elias closed his eyes, and for a moment, it felt like they were standing right behind him, warm and solid.

"Sensei?"

Hikari's voice pulled him back.

She stood near the supply shelves, but her hand rested on the side panel of a low cabinet, fingers tracing a faint seam Elias had never noticed.

"What's this?" she asked.

Elias frowned. "What's what?"

"This line." She knelt, brushing flour dust aside with her sleeve. Beneath it, a tiny keyhole glinted faintly in the dim light.

Elias felt his pulse tick up. "That's… not part of the cabinet."

Hikari tugged the handle — and with a soft creak, a hidden drawer slid open.

Inside lay a single notebook, edges stained dark with age, the cover soft and peeling.

"This isn't mine," Elias whispered.

He lifted it with both hands, the weight familiar but unfamiliar at the same time. When he opened it, the handwriting hit him like a punch to the chest.

His mother's handwriting.

Page after page filled with recipes that never made it into the bakery. Half-baked ideas, experiments she'd been working on. Cookies they'd never gotten to sell.

Some had notes scribbled beside them:"Too sweet, try less honey.""Add rosemary?""Feels lonely — needs warmth."

Elias sat down on the tatami floor, the notebook trembling slightly in his hands. His breath hitched before he could stop it.

The tears came fast, unexpected and hot, sliding down his face and into the notebook's paper like they belonged there.

"Sensei…" Hikari whispered, kneeling beside him but not knowing what to say.

So she didn't say anything.

She just hugged him, awkward and slightly too tight, her apron still smelling like burnt sugar and flour. Elias didn't pull away.

The house held its silence. No words, just the sound of Elias' quiet sobbing and the occasional sharp breath as he tried to pull himself together.

But he didn't need to pull himself together this time.There was someone beside him. Someone who smelled like cookies and believed in him enough to show up, even for this.

The ghosts could wait.

The bakery needed restocking.

But for now, Elias let himself cry — into the silence, into the wood and air, into the past that was always one step behind him.

And for the first time in years, the old house didn't feel empty.