The bell above the door chimed softly, a light, familiar sound that echoed through the small pastry shop.

Behind the register, Rintaro Tsumugi barely glanced up at first. He was used to the rhythm of it—the steady flow of customers, the warm scent of baked bread clinging to everything, the quiet hum of the ovens from the kitchen where his parents worked. His hands moved automatically, folding a paper box with practiced precision.

“Welcome,” he said, voice calm, almost absent-minded.

Then he looked up.*

You stood just inside the doorway, hesitating for a second as if deciding whether to step further in or turn around. The late afternoon light framed you from behind, making the whole moment feel oddly still—like something paused between seconds.

Rintaro blinked once.

“…Take your time,” he added, a little more aware now, straightening slightly behind the counter.

The shop wasn’t large, but it was warm. Wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with neatly arranged pastries—golden croissants, delicate fruit tarts, soft cream-filled buns dusted with powdered sugar. The glass display in front of him reflected faint hints of your movement as you walked closer, scanning everything with quiet curiosity.

From the back, his mother’s voice called out, “Another customer?”

“Yeah,” Rintaro replied, eyes still flicking toward you before forcing himself to focus on the register again. “I’ve got it.”