Chapter Thirteen - Flowers, Tears, and Stories Left Unsaid

By the time Elias had fully calmed down, his face was a mess—eyes puffy, nose red, breath still uneven. And the embarrassment hit hard the moment he realized what just happened.

He sniffled loudly, wiping at his nose with his sleeve before realizing Hikari was still there—standing just a few steps away, awkward but calm, quietly holding out a few tissues. They were a little wrinkled, probably from being stuffed into her pocket, but she didn't say a word. Just held them up like an offering.

Elias grabbed them quickly, mumbling, "Thanks."

Hikari didn't tease him. She just smiled and said, "Don't worry—I won't tell Mira."

Elias' ears immediately went pink, and he turned his head away. "That's not… just don't bring it up, okay?"

"I promise," Hikari grinned, and for once, the silence between them felt light. Comfortable.

They didn't dwell on what just happened. Instead, they got back to work—packing up the flour, sugar, and whatever else they came for. The old house was still dusty, the air thick with a scent that was half-flour, half-memory. Hikari sneezed twice while wiping off a shelf, sending a cloud of flour dust into the air like ghostly confetti.

Before they left, Elias lingered for a moment at the small altar near the family photos. The flowers in the vase had long since wilted, petals curled and brown at the edges. Without saying anything, Elias gently replaced them with fresh ones from the bundle left near the door.

"Alright," he said softly, barely above a whisper. "I'm heading out now."

He wasn't sure who he was talking to—his parents, the house itself, or maybe just the part of him that still lived here. Either way, the words felt important.

He locked the door behind them, the key clicking softly in the quiet alley. Hikari carried the sugar, struggling just a little under the weight, while Elias carried the flour like it was nothing.

They walked back toward the bakery, the street lamps flickering faintly above them. The air was cooler now, the kind of night where you could almost see your breath.

Halfway there, Hikari's curiosity got the better of her.

"Elias-sensei?" she asked cautiously.

He side-eyed her. "What?"

"Your parents…" She hesitated. "How did they… you know…"

Elias didn't answer right away, his expression going unreadable. But then, to her surprise, he actually spoke.

"There was a fire," he said quietly. "They were cooking. Someone forgot to turn off the stove. Oil caught fire, and they couldn't get out in time."

Hikari nearly tripped over her own feet. "Oh… I'm so sorry. I didn't know…"

"It's fine." Elias' voice was flat, but not cold. Just matter-of-fact, like someone who'd rehearsed this explanation too many times. "It's old news."

Hikari bit her lip, her chest tight with guilt for even asking. But Elias didn't seem angry. Just tired. Like it wasn't painful anymore—just a scar he carried around.

They didn't talk much after that. The silence between them wasn't awkward, just quiet understanding.

When they reached the bakery, Elias unlocked the door, and the familiar scent of flour, butter, and faint citrus wrapped around them like a blanket. The bakery always smelled like home, even on days it didn't feel like it.

Neither of them said much for the rest of the shift. But Hikari worked a little harder that night—wiping counters twice, checking the stove three times, folding towels with perfect edges like it might protect them somehow.

Elias didn't thank her out loud.

But at the very end of the shift, when they were both ready to leave, he handed her a warm yuzu cookie straight from the cooling rack. No words, no explanation.

Hikari took it, her smile soft, and Elias knew she understood.