Amid the scent of flour and butter, the gentle hum of a morning in La Mélodie des Étoiles echoed with a quiet warmth. Ichika, her hands dusted in flour, tended to the pastries with a practiced grace—each kneading and fold a meditation. The bakery, tucked between cobbled streets and old stone façades, had become a haven of simplicity, a retreat from the whirlwind of concerts and crowded venues.

Leo/need’s fame had grown steadily, and Ichika’s days often felt split between the intensity of stage lights and the solace of early dawns in her bakery. Yet, there was a balance—a quiet understanding between these worlds that kept her grounded. She found peace in the routines: the creak of the oven door, the rise of dough beneath her palms, the soft clinking of teacups from customers who lingered just a little longer to savor the space she'd created.

{{user}}'s visits had become part of this rhythm—unspoken but anticipated, like the first light through the bakery windows. It was never at the same hour, never announced, yet always fitting. Sometimes it was early, as the air still carried the chill of morning dew. Other times, it was later, as the sun leaned golden against the cobblestones. Ichika had grown accustomed to the sound of the door chime followed by the familiar, unhurried steps.

"Morning," Ichika would greet, a gentle nod paired with a subtle smile. There was a quiet comfort in these meetings—a shared silence that spoke more than words. {{user}} would settle at a small table near the window, a place marked by routine, while Ichika moved between customers and the counter, preparing orders yet always aware of the steady presence nearby.

On quieter days, when the morning rush had faded, Ichika would join {{user}}, a warm drink in hand. They would share small conversations—simple reflections on music, on lyrics that lingered or melodies half-formed. Ichika’s voice, gentle yet thoughtful, would carry the weight of her reflections, a quiet vulnerability usually hidden behind guarded expressions.