The afternoon lull settled over the Garden House at 3:17 PM, carving out a quiet pocket between lunch cleanup and evening prep.
However, this stillness felt completely different from the dampening panels down in the main café.
While the café's silence was carefully curated and built to control every echo, the silence up in the Garden House felt natural, lived-in, and full of small everyday sounds.
For instance, the refrigerator hummed faintly from the kitchen below, while a gentle wind rustled through the pine trees outside the window.
At the same time, the old floorboards let out soft creaks as the house settled under its own weight.
This was certainly no dramatic space made for deep grieving or grand emotional scenes, but rather, it was just an ordinary house.
It was simply a place where people slept, woke up, and rested between their busy shifts downstairs.
Its quietness was not sacred or special at all; instead, it was just plain everyday life.
And yet, in that simple ordinariness, it gave everyone a rare kind of comfort—the freedom to just exist without anyone watching, judging, or expecting a show.
Ririka Momobami sat on the edge of her mattress in the small upstairs room, which was the quiet space she had claimed for herself.
The bedroom was modest and unassuming.
It held a narrow bed covered in rumpled linen, a wooden desk cluttered with notebooks and pens, and a single window that looked out over the pine canopy.
Meanwhile, the closet door stood slightly open, revealing the plain, oversized clothes she wore whenever she wasn't playing the Vice President, the shadow, or any of the heavy roles that had defined her life before she took off her mask.
At the same time, Nouno lay curled up right at the foot of the bed.
The cat's thick fur caught the warm afternoon light, while her amber eyes stayed half-closed in total relaxation.
Her low, steady purring filled the room, bringing a simple, easy comfort that didn't demand a single thing from anyone.
Ririka reached out with a hand, her fingers gently sinking into the cat's soft fur.
"You don't care about any of those roles, do you?" she asked softly, her voice barely a whisper in the quiet space.
Nouno just flicked her ear lazily, letting out a small, content sigh as she leaned into Ririka's touch, completely unbothered by the heavy thoughts lingering in the room.
Ririka's phone lay face-up on the wooden desk, and its screen remained completely dark.
She just sat there on the edge of the mattress, staring down at the quiet display.
Meanwhile, her long, platinum-silver hair fell loose around her shoulders without any hairpins or styling, catching the warm sunlight in soft, shifting waves.
She wore an oversized cream sweater with sleeves that were far too long, completely swallowing up her hands up to the knuckles.
At the same time, her pale blue eyes were wide and uncertain, fixed on the black rectangle as if it were a doorway she was not quite sure she could cross.
"It's just a phone," she whispered to herself, pulling her knees up closer to her chest.
She let out a slow exhale, watching the dark screen for even the smallest hint of light.
"Nothing bad is going to happen if it rings," she added softly, though her fingers still pulled the extra fabric of her sleeves over her hands, looking for any bit of comfort while she waited.
Mary had sent that text twenty minutes ago: Free to talk?
It was just three simple words, carrying no pressure, no demand, and no heavy expectation.
Instead, it was just a quiet opening and an easy invitation.
It felt like a hand reaching out across the long distance between Hyakkaou Academy and Mirror Lake, bridging the gap between the old world Ririka had walked away from and the new life she was trying to build for herself.
Furthermore, it was an offer extended to the girl who had spent years hiding behind a plastic mask, and who was now trying—slowly and painfully—to figure out how to live without one.
Ririka had actually stared at those three words for twelve whole minutes before finally typing a response.
Yes.
It was just a single word, typed out with trembling fingers and sent off before she could talk herself out of it.
She had rushed to hit send before her old fears could take over her head: What if I say the wrong thing? What if my voice shakes on the call? What if she hears how lost I still am? What if she realizes I'm just putting on another act, even when I think I'm being real?
Yet she had forced herself to send it anyway, simply because the only other choice was falling back into complete silence.
And silence was the exact mask she was trying so hard to take off.
Now the phone lay dark and silent on the desk, just waiting.
She knew the call would come whenever Mary was ready, so Ririka sat quietly on the edge of the bed and waited right along with it.
Her hands rested folded in her lap, her fingers constantly twisting together, pulling apart, and then twisting up again.
This nervous fidgeting felt deeply familiar, almost comfortable in a strange way.
It was simply her body's old habit for handling stress, built up over seventeen long years of existing as someone else's shadow.
She didn't try to stop the nervous habit, choosing to just watch it happen instead.
She noticed the tight tension in her knuckles, tracked the shallow rhythm of her breath, and felt how her shoulders drew inward.
It was as if making herself look smaller could somehow make the coming conversation less terrifying.
Then, at 3:24 PM, the screen suddenly lit up with an incoming call from Mary Saotome.
Ririka's breath caught instantly in her chest, and her fingers tightened around the long sleeves of her sweater.
She stared down at the glowing screen, watching Mary's name shine against the dark glass while the green accept button pulsed with patient insistence.
Slowly, she reached out with a trembling hand, pressed the screen, and brought the phone up to her ear.
"H-Hello?"
The single word came out fractured and stammering, the familiar hitch catching in her throat as her old habits took over before she could stop them.
She winced, closed her eyes tightly, and pressed her lips together in frustration.
It was always like this—over and over again, even here in her own room, and even with Mary.
"Hey, Ririka," Mary's voice came through, sounding warm, steady, and grounded.
It carried that easy, natural confidence that had always helped Ririka find her footing—the very voice that had first shown her that her own words could exist without copying anyone else.
"How are you?" Mary asked softly.
The question was simple, open, and easy.
It wasn't Are you okay? or Tell me what's wrong, nor was it I'm worried about you. It was just a straightforward How are you?
It was a question that assumed Ririka actually had a real answer, that her feelings were worth asking about, and that whatever she was going through mattered—whether she could say it cleanly or not.
Ririka opened her mouth, but then closed it right back up as her throat tightened.
A dozen different thoughts scrambled together behind her teeth, all fighting to come out at once: I'm fine. I'm struggling. I don't know. I miss you. I'm scared. I'm trying. I don't know if I'm doing any of this right, or if anything I feel is even real, or if I'm just acting vulnerable to get your approval.
She swallowed hard, her fingers twisting the long hem of her oversized sweater.
Down at the foot of the bed, Nouno shifted her weight, her steady purring continuing without a pause, completely unbothered by the quiet struggle happening above her.
"I..." Ririka started, then stopped cold.
She swallowed again and tried a completely different approach. Lowering her voice, she slowed her breathing down, focusing on the simple feeling of air moving through her throat and using her tongue to shape the sounds.
"I'm... figuring it out," she said.
The words came out haltingly and far from smooth, but they arrived anyway. They weren't confident, but they were whole, and they belonged entirely to her.
"Take your time," Mary said softly from the receiver, her voice coming through calm and patient. "I'm not going anywhere."
Mary didn't rush to fill the quiet spaces between them, nor did she throw out cheap reassurances.
Instead, her presence remained quiet and grounded on the line, turning the silence into a comfortable space rather than an awkward gap.
Ririka took a breath—in, out, and then in again.
Her tight grip on her sweater hem finally loosened, and her shoulders dropped a small fraction of an inch.
"It's hard," she whispered, her voice sounding quieter and rougher now. It carried the raw, unpolished texture of words being formed right in the moment, without any rehearsal. "Existing without the mask... I thought taking it off would make everything easier, like I'd feel lighter or freer."
She paused, her breath hitching slightly in her chest.
"But it doesn't feel like that at all," she admitted softly. "It actually feels much heavier. It's like I'm carrying something I didn't even realize I was holding, until I finally tried to put it down."
She stopped speaking and waited, listening closely to the quiet noise on the other end of the line, where Mary's breathing remained steady and unhurried.
"I keep wondering if I'm still performing," Ririka continued, her voice dropping down to a barely audible whisper.
The words felt dragged up from deep beneath the surface—far below the practiced tone of the Vice President, and far below seventeen long years of speaking only when directed.
"Even when I think I'm being real," she added, leaning her forehead against her knees. "Even when I'm alone, or even right now, talking to you. I hear myself and I wonder: is this actually me? Or is this just another version of the mask?"
Her fingers found the hem of her sweater again, twisting the soft fabric before letting go, only to twist it right back up.
The nervous fidgeting was still there as an old body habit, but it was no longer hiding her words; it was simply existing right alongside them.
"I'm so tired, Mary," she whispered.
That small admission cost her more than any big confession of fear or failure, mostly because being tired wasn't dramatic or flashy.
It was just plain exhaustion—the quiet, unglamorous work of trying to become real.
"I'm just tired of wondering if I'm real," she said, her voice wavering slightly. "I'm tired of monitoring myself, and I'm tired of trying to become someone without knowing if that person is actually me, or just another role I'm playing."
She stopped speaking, her breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls while her eyes burned with heat.
Pressing her free hand flat against her chest, she held herself together, as if the act of speaking had loosened something deep inside that might spill over.
"I hear you," Mary said simply.
The three words came through flat, true, and grounded.
There was no instant fix, no empty comfort, and no pressure to change. It was just a quiet, solid answer, letting Ririka know that every single word had reached the other side.
Ririka's breath caught for a second, held still, and then finally released in a long, quiet exhale.
At the same time, her hand pressed a little harder against her chest, and her eyes gently closed.
Yet the darkness behind her eyelids didn't feel empty at all.
Instead, it was filled with the soft sound of Mary's voice, the steady purr of Nouno at the foot of the mattress, and the warm sunlight sinking through the window glass.
It was filled with the actual weight of her own words hanging in the air—spoken directly to the person who had first taught her how to speak, and who was now showing her how to simply be heard.
She hadn't stammered once.
Not a single time throughout that whole conversation.
It wasn't because she suddenly felt brave, nor was it because her nervous anxiety had magically vanished.
Furthermore, it certainly wasn't because she had perfected the art of talking without her old mask on.
Rather, it was simply because she was completely exhausted.
The sheer tiredness of constantly filtering every word had finally become heavier than the fear of just speaking her mind out loud.
Her voice had grown stronger not through flawless performance, but through awkward, stubborn practice over time.
Because Mary's quiet patience had made room for her to mess up, Ririka had finally realized something important—her real voice didn't need to be smooth or confident to be completely true, and it didn't need to be perfect to belong to her.
She opened her eyes, noticing how the late afternoon light had shifted across the room.
The golden ribbons of sunlight now pooled across the bare floorboards, catching floating dust motes and lighting up Nouno's sleeping form at the foot of the bed.
The phone was still pressed against her ear, and Mary was still right there on the line—quiet, calm, and completely present.
"Thank you," Ririka whispered softly into the receiver.
The words came out remarkably clear and steady, carrying a real, grounded certainty.
It wasn't polite small talk, nor was it thanks for quick advice, reassurance, or a simple fix.
Instead, it was gratitude for just being there, for keeping that space open, and for being the one person who had shown her how to speak without ever demanding that her words be polished or scripted.
"Anytime," Mary replied smoothly, her voice warm and easy.
It was the same familiar confidence Ririka had always relied on, but it felt quieter now—not trying to lead her or push her forward, but simply walking right beside her.
"I'm here," Mary added softly. "Whenever you need."
"I know," Ririka said, a tiny, genuine smile touching her lips. "I'll talk to you soon."
The call ended with a quiet click, and the screen went completely dark.
Ririka lowered the phone down to her lap, resting her hands over her knees.
She just sat there on the edge of the mattress in the warm, slanted sunlight, her platinum-silver hair catching the golden glow, her pale blue eyes clear, and her shoulders relaxed instead of drawn tight.
Her fingers had finally stopped twisting the hem of her oversized sweater, and she remained completely still.
It wasn't a stiff or rehearsed pose, but a genuine, easy quietness.
It was the quiet state of someone who had finally spoken her mind, had been truly heard, and had discovered through the whole experience that she was still right here—still real, still whole, and still growing into herself.
Nouno stirred right at the foot of the bed, stretching her legs out slowly.
The Persian cat yawned big, blinking her wide amber eyes open as she woke up.
She looked up at Ririka with the supreme, easy curiosity of a pet who had watched the whole conversation happen, finding it mildly interesting but mostly irrelevant to her own afternoon.
She padded across the rumpled bed, circled around once, and settled herself right against Ririka's thigh.
Her thick fur felt warm against Ririka's leg, her steady purr started up again, and her quiet presence offered a simple reminder that just existing didn't require any kind of show.
Ririka rested her hand gently on Nouno's back, her fingers sinking deep into the soft fur.
"Good afternoon to you, too," Ririka whispered, stroking the cat's back.
Nouno gave a soft, quiet chirrup in response, leaning her head into Ririka's palm.
Ririka just breathed—in, out, and then in again.
Her breathing felt much slower and deeper now, steadying out with every passing second.
Downstairs, the everyday life of the café kept moving along at its usual pace.
Customers drifted in and out through the front door while the espresso machine hissed loudly.
Hisako focused on restocking the glass pastry case, and Jun wiped down the long counter with a damp cloth.
At the prep station, Kaguya chopped up fresh vegetables, her careful movements still carrying the slow, deliberate pace of someone practicing a new skill.
Meanwhile, Hayasaka sat at her usual far table, holding a warm cup of chamomile tea in both hands, her soft blue eyes watching the room with a calm, steady presence.
Out in the real world, the day just kept moving forward as the afternoon quiet settled in even deeper.
The Garden House held onto its ordinary, uncurated silence, letting everyone inside just be themselves.
And up on the edge of her bed, Ririka Momobami sat quietly in the slanted sunlight.
Her hand stayed resting on the purring cat, her phone lay dark in her lap, and her words still seemed to echo softly in the room.
She knew inside—far deeper than any fake confidence or polished performance—that she had actually spoken her mind today.
She had been heard, and she was still right here.
It wasn't because she had said everything perfectly, but simply because she had shown up and tried.
And showing up—even when it was hard, messy, exhausting, and scary—was more than enough for today.
It was enough for this simple, unfinished moment in a house that felt like a real home, sitting in a quiet room with a voice that was finally, truly her own.