Chapter Eighteen - The Scientists

Kobayashi never told Elias everything about his parents.

Not because he wanted to keep secrets — but because some stories need time to ripen. Just like a good broth, some truths only made sense after they'd simmered long enough.

But tonight, after ramen bowls were emptied and ghosts were mentioned, Kobayashi knew it was time.

They were called Greywood, a name that felt strange in this neighborhood where surnames leaned Japanese. But from the moment they moved into the old machiya next door, Kobayashi had a feeling they weren't the type to fit anywhere perfectly.

They were both scientists — not the cold, corporate kind, but the wild kind. The kind who filled their house with too many notebooks, burned things in their kitchen by accident, and argued passionately about things no one else could understand.

He never knew their first names right away. They just introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Greywood, bowing too deeply like they'd read about it in a book and practiced in the mirror. It took months before they finally softened up enough to let him call them by their real names.

Elias' mother was Clara Greywood — wide-eyed, always curious, with flour constantly under her nails and hair always pinned up too hastily. She was the baker, the dreamer, the one who believed food could carry stories if you handled it right.

Elias' father was Laurence Greywood — sharper around the edges, glasses always slightly smudged, the kind of man who could hold a conversation with his own reflection if left alone too long. He was the theorist, the one who wanted to crack the code of emotions, memory, and sensory science — and Clara's baking became his perfect laboratory.

They started with experiments — simple at first.

Could the way you kneaded dough affect how warm it felt on the tongue?Could scent trigger more than just hunger — could it pull up forgotten feelings?Could taste actually carry memory, like how certain smells bring you back to childhood?

Laurence was obsessed.Clara thought it was ridiculous, but she loved him too much not to play along.

They spent late nights — way past midnight — baking, testing, scribbling down notes, arguing over how long to proof the dough or what kind of salt to use. Their kitchen smelled like sugar and science, and more often than not, they forgot to eat actual meals because they were too full on hope and possibility.

Kobayashi only found out because he caught them one night.

He'd knocked on their door to return a mail package that got mixed up. When the door swung open, the air that hit him was thick — warm, sweet, and sharp with citrus and cinnamon.

Laurence stood at the counter, peering into the oven like he was waiting for it to whisper a secret. Clara was behind him, flour streaked across her cheek, laughing so hard she couldn't breathe.

"Did I… interrupt something?" Kobayashi asked.

Laurence turned around, blinking like he forgot other people existed. "We're testing a theory."

Clara grinned. "Want to try our first ever emotion cookie?"

Kobayashi stared. "Your what?"

That night, they made him a cookie that tasted like nostalgia.

He didn't know how they did it — neither did they, honestly. But when Kobayashi bit into it, he could smell his childhood summers, taste the air of his parents' old kitchen, feel the weight of his mother's hand ruffling his hair.

It freaked him out.It made him cry.And it made him come back the next day, asking for another.

That's how their friendship started — over experimental cookies and ramen traded for burnt test batches. They weren't good with people, but with Kobayashi, it was easy. No need to explain themselves. Just food and silence and understanding.

The bakery was never meant to be normal.

They opened Moonlight Crumbs not because they wanted to get rich, but because they believed a bakery could be a place to store feelings safely. A bakery could be a living memory box, where every cookie carried someone's quiet truth.

The recipes were their life's work — half science, half magic, all heart.

But they never finished it.

The fire took them before they could perfect the balance — the line between baking memory and breaking reality. That notebook Elias found? It was their unfinished dream.

Kobayashi never told Elias this before because grief is a stubborn thing.

He knew Elias wasn't ready to carry his parents' dreams when he was still drowning in their absence. But now, seeing him sitting at the counter with flour on his sleeves and two people beside him who cared enough to panic when he disappeared—Kobayashi knew the time had come.

"Elias," Kobayashi said, voice softer than usual. "They wanted you to have that book someday. They just… never figured out how to say it."

Elias looked down at his hands, fingers tracing invisible circles on the countertop. "They never told me."

"Parents never tell you the important stuff until it's too late," Kobayashi muttered, pouring them each a refill of tea. "That's the curse of being a parent."

Mira sniffled dramatically. "Okay, this is getting too emotional for noodles."

Hikari smiled faintly, her hand resting near Elias' elbow—not touching, but close enough that if he needed something to hold onto, it was there.

"They believed baking could heal people, Elias." Kobayashi's voice turned gruff again. "They wanted this bakery to be a place where no one had to hide their feelings. Where you could eat a cookie and just… be honest."

Elias swallowed hard. "That's a lot to live up to."

"Then don't live up to it." Kobayashi's eyes narrowed. "Make it yours. They gave you a starting point. You decide what comes next."

Elias exhaled slowly, steam from his tea curling around his fingers.

When they left the ramen shop, the sky was full of low-hanging clouds, the kind that swallowed moonlight whole.

But inside Elias, something glowed just a little—the warmth of knowing his parents' dream didn't die with them.

It was still rising.

And it was his turn to knead it into shape.