The final bell of the school day rang with a shrill, metallic clang that echoed through the hallways of Mizube High, triggering an immediate, chaotic symphony of scraping chairs, zipping bags, and chattering voices. Himari Tanaka carefully slotted her English textbook into her bag, the familiar weight a comfort. The morning's encounter with Maya and Sora felt like a distant memory, washed away by the mundanity of quadratic equations and the Meiji Restoration.
"Volleyball practice! Then bakery duty!" Hana announced, popping up beside Himari's desk like an excited jack-in-the-box. "I need to test out my 'heroically sacrificed' ball. I've decided the dent gives it character. Like a battle scar."
Himari laughed, shouldering her bag. "I'm sure Coach will see it that way."
As they joined the river of students flowing into the hallway, a voice called out from behind them. "Tanaka-san? A moment?"
Kawabe stood there, looking slightly flushed, his kendo bag slung over his shoulder. He clutched a folded piece of paper in his hand. "About the menu boards… I know it's short notice, but some of the café committee are meeting in the art room now to brainstorm. I was wondering if you might have a few minutes to… well, to share your ideas? Your sketch was… much better than mine."
Hana's eyes widened with glee. She nudged Himari sharply in the ribs. "Go on, Himari! We can be a little late to practice. This is for the festival! It's important!"
Himari felt a familiar, fluttering sensation in her chest. It was the same feeling she got when she had to serve for match point. A mix of nerves and anticipation. "Sure," she said, her voice thankfully steady. "I can spare a few minutes."
"Excellent!" Hana beamed. "I'll tell Coach you're on a critical cultural mission! See you there!" She dashed off, her ponytail swinging.
The art room was on the third floor, at the end of a quiet hallway. Sunlight streamed through the large, north-facing windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The room smelled of turpentine, clay, and old paper. Kawabe's committee consisted of two other students: a quiet girl named Emi from the calligraphy club, and a boisterous boy named Riku who was in charge of construction.
"So, you're the artistic genius Kawabe's been raving about," Riku said, grinning. He gestured to a large, blank piece of foam board leaning against an easel. "This is our canvas. We need something that says 'Welcome to Class 2-C's Café: Coffee, Curry, and Comfort!' but, you know, artfully."
Emi bowed slightly. "I can handle the lettering, if you provide the design."
Himari felt all their eyes on her. She unzipped her bag and pulled out her personal sketchbook. It was a well-worn, leather-bound book filled with her private world: detailed sketches of the mountains around Mizube, studies of flowers from her grandmother's garden, quick, funny cartoons of cats chasing butterflies. She flipped to a clean page and picked up a pencil.
"What if…" she began, her voice soft but clear. "What if we didn't try to write it all out? What if we showed it?" Her pencil started to move, swift and confident. She sketched a large, steaming coffee cup in the center. From the swirls of steam, she drew the curves of a musical note, a book, and a smiling sun. "The steam can represent the atmosphere—music, relaxation, warmth. And around the cup…" She drew simple, elegant borders of coffee beans and curry leaves. "Emi-san, you could write the class name here, in a graceful script," she said, pointing to the top. "And the menu items can be listed here, clean and easy to read."
The room was quiet for a moment, save for the soft scratching of her pencil.
"Wow," Riku breathed. "That's… actually really good."
Kawabe was staring at the sketch, a look of pure admiration on his face. "It's perfect, Tanaka-san. It's exactly the feeling we want."
Emi nodded in agreement. "The balance is very pleasing. I can work with this."
For twenty minutes, they huddled together, refining the design. Himari, caught up in the flow of creation, lost her shyness. She suggested color palettes—warm browns, creamy yellows, a pop of green for the leaves. She laughed at Riku's terrible puns and carefully considered Emi's suggestions on brush strokes. For a little while, she wasn't just Himari Tanaka, the baker's niece or the volleyball setter. She was an artist, and her vision was coming to life.
"I'm sorry, I have to get to practice," she finally said, glancing at the clock.
"Of course! Thank you so much, Tanaka-san!" Kawabe said, bowing deeply. "This is going to be amazing."
As she hurried down the stairs towards the gym, Himari felt a warm glow that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun. It was the satisfaction of creating something, of collaborating, of being seen for a skill she loved.
Volleyball practice was a sweaty, exhausting, and wonderful contrast. The sound of the ball being spiked, the shouted calls, the collective groan when someone missed a receive—it was pure, unthinking physicality. Hana, of course, was relentless during water breaks.
"Details! I need details!" she whispered, pulling Himari aside. "Was it romantic? Were you two leaning over the same piece of paper? Did your hands accidentally touch?"
"Hana! It was a committee meeting. There were four of us."
"But he was looking at you, right? With those dreamy kendo eyes?"
"He was looking at the sketch," Himari insisted, though she could feel the warmth returning to her cheeks.
After practice, feeling pleasantly tired, Himari walked back to the bakery. The evening light was long and golden, painting the town in soft hues. As she turned onto Dōgūza, she saw a small, unfamiliar car parked outside the bakery—a sleek, silver sedan that looked out of place among the town's older, boxier vehicles. Two men in dark, casual but expensive-looking jackets were standing inside, talking to Uncle Kenji.
They weren't from Mizube. Their posture was too straight, their haircuts too sharp. One of them was showing Uncle Kenji something on a tablet. Her uncle's face was neutral, but she saw the way his shoulders were set, a little too stiff. Auntie Yumi was wiping the same spot on the counter over and over, her back to the men.
Himari's steps slowed. A cold, formless anxiety, the kind that had no specific source, prickled at the back of her neck. She pushed the bakery door open, the bell jingling a cheerful note that felt incongruous.
The men turned. Their eyes, impersonal and assessing, scanned her from head to toe. It was a quick glance, but it felt like an inventory.
"Ah, and this must be your niece," the taller one said, his voice smooth.
"Himari," Uncle Kenji said, his voice a little too loud. "These gentlemen are from the… regional educational board. They're doing a survey on small-town school funding." He came around the counter, placing himself slightly between her and the men. "Himari, why don't you go help your aunt in the back? We need to get the morning bread prepped."
"Yes, Uncle," she said softly, dropping her gaze and moving quickly past the counter. In the back kitchen, the familiar warmth and the smell of yeast enveloped her. She could hear the low murmur of voices from the front.
Auntie Yumi put a gentle hand on her arm. "It's nothing, sweetheart. Just some paperwork. Here, can you measure out the flour for tomorrow's shokupan?"
Himari nodded, taking the large measuring bowl. The rhythmic, repetitive task of scooping and leveling flour was calming. By the time she had finished, the men were gone. The bakery felt normal again.
Later, as she walked home in the twilight, the image of the two men lingered. They were like a stone dropped into the still pond of her life, the ripples already fading but the memory of the disturbance remaining. She focused on the solid feeling of the cobblestones under her feet, the sound of a television playing a variety show from an open window, the smell of someone's dinner—grilled fish. This was real. This was her life. The men were just a passing shadow.
That night, after finishing her homework, she lay in bed and scrolled through her phone. She looked at the photos Hana had posted from practice, she messaged Takumi about the math homework, and then, on a whim, she looked up kendo tournaments. She found a picture of Kawabe from a recent regional match. He looked focused and strong, his helmet under his arm. She smiled, and for a moment, the shadow of the silver sedan was completely gone.