A few more days passed in quiet succession.
Every morning at six-thirty, I headed downstairs to open the doors. Cleaning at seven, and at eight sharp, Reze would appear—she hadn't been late since. Life felt like a pre-set program, its regularity bringing a deep sense of peace. I grew accustomed to the scents of the various coffee beans, memorized the faces and habits of more regulars, and the number of cups I broke while washing dropped to once a week.
Life had finally taken a proper shape. It filled me with a sense of gratitude that bordered on the sacred.
On Wednesday afternoon, the shop was quiet. I was crouching in front of the shelves counting sugar packets when the manager came down from his upstairs office, holding two envelopes.
"Reze, Hong Xin." He walked over and placed the envelopes on the counter. "Payday."
Reze's hand, currently wiping down the espresso machine, paused for a beat. She naturally took the thicker envelope and stuffed it into her apron pocket without even a glance. "Thanks, Boss."
The manager nodded and turned to me, sliding the thinner envelope across the counter. His finger tapped the paper lightly. "Yours. Your first official salary."
Official salary.
The words were like a pebble dropped into the lake of my heart, sending ripples outward. Unlike the thin envelope from the trial period, the manager had called this an "official salary." I picked it up gingerly, my fingertips sensing the solid thickness of the bills inside. This wasn't the temporary compensation of a trial period meant to "see if I'd do"; it was an acknowledgment: "You did it. This is what you earned."
I looked up at the manager, my throat tightening. "Th-thank you, Manager."
"Mm." The manager adjusted his glasses, his gaze sweeping across the shop. "I'll start deducting utilities and the agreed-upon rent from this month onward. You plan out the rest yourself." He paused, his tone softening slightly. "You've truly found your footing in Tokyo now."
Truly found your footing in Tokyo.
Those words carried more weight than the envelope in my hand. I nodded vigorously, clutching the envelope to my chest like a medal proving my existence.
Beside me, Reze had resumed wiping the machine, her movements as fluid as ever. But I saw it—the moment she turned, a glimpse from the corner of her eye caught the envelope in my hand, and her lips curled into a nearly invisible arc.
That wasn't just a look of "getting paid." It was an expression of quiet satisfaction, as if saying: See? I told you that you could do it.
"Get back to work," the manager said. "Oh, and Hong Xin, remember to fill out the repair request for that leaking faucet in the attic tomorrow. I'll call a plumber."
"Okay."
The manager turned and went back upstairs. I stood there, clutching the envelope, the warmth of the bills radiating through the paper. Beside me, Reze continued her work, acting as if nothing had happened.
The money in my pocket felt like a warm coal.
After the lunch break that day, I sat cross-legged on my bed in the attic, pulled the bills from the envelope, and counted them meticulously once more. Even after deducting the advanced living expenses and utilities, the remaining number made my fingertips tremble. This was the first time I had truly earned money by my own hand—money that belonged entirely to me. It was no longer just a voucher for survival; it suddenly had shape and temperature. It had become "possibility" itself.
What could I do with it? The thought spun lightly in my mind. Buy a pair of shoes that didn't leak? Try one of those crepes from the stand by the station that always had a line? Or… buy something for Reze.
The moment that last thought surfaced, it coiled around me like a vine. I wanted to do something for her. It wasn't just out of gratitude—though I had enough of that to overflow—it was something clumsier, something more burning. I wanted to share this "goodness" with her. I wanted to prove that I wasn't just a receiver; I could be a giver, too.
The cafe after closing possessed a unique tranquility. Only a few lights remained on, casting warm pools of light across the dark wooden floor. Reze was behind the counter settling the day's accounts, the calculator emitting a rhythmic tapping. I lingered, wiping a bar that was already polished to a shine, my palms damp with nerves.
"Um… Miss Reze." When my voice came out, it was drier than I'd expected.
She looked up, her pen pausing. "Yes?"
"I…" I took a deep breath, my fingers bunching the fabric of my apron. "I received my salary today."
"I know." Her lips seemed to quirk. "The boss gave it to you."
"So… so…"
My brain whirred frantically like a rusted gear spinning in a void, unable to catch. My mouth opened and closed, but no proper sentence formed.
I wanted to say: I have money now, too. I wanted to say: I want to give you something, too. I wanted to say: You can't always be the one taking care of me and buying me food.
But those words were stuck in my throat, refusing to assemble into a decent sentence.
Should I just say, "I'll give you money"? That sounded strange, like paying a bill or giving charity. Should I ask, "What do you want, Miss Reze?" No, that was too presumptuous, as if I were prying into her life.
I needed a word. A word that could encompass "I'm capable now," "I want to be good to you," and "I want to make things easier for you."
Deep in my mind, as if groping through murky water, my fingertips suddenly brushed against a sunken fragment—something I'd seen in an old magazine back home. The font had been fancy, the context ambiguous. I hadn't quite understood it then, but those characters together had a strange strength to them, a sense of claiming ownership.
It was a word that seemed to cover the acts of "giving" and "taking care of."
That must be what it means, right?
After a long internal struggle, my brain reached a conclusion, and the word tangled on the tip of my tongue:
"I want to… keep you!"
Time seemed to freeze for several seconds.
Reze's expression locked into a state of pure bewilderment. She stared at me, her eyes widening as if she hadn't understood a word I said. And then—
"Pfft… Hahaha… Hahahaha!"
She burst into an explosion of laughter. It wasn't her usual subtle, fleeting smile, but a genuine, gut-busting laugh that made her double over. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with the back of her hand, her shoulders shaking so hard her ponytail swayed.
I had never seen Reze like this. The Reze who always carried a faint air of detachment had vanished; in her place was a woman simply overcome by an absurd joke. Caught up in her laughter, even though I didn't understand the punchline, I couldn't help but grin sheepishly. My heart felt like it was being slowly filled with warm honey.
Reze straightened up and walked toward me, her hand coming to rest on my shoulder.
"Hong Xin," she said my name, her voice still laced with the remnants of laughter, yet somehow making my chest tighten. "Do you know what it means to 'keep' someone?"
I hesitated, nodding once before shaking my head. "Mostly… it means I'll be good to you and take care of you."
Reze watched me silently for a few seconds, her gaze appearing to look through me toward a distant corner.
"Then—" Her voice remained soft, but her eyes had changed. "Do you know what kind of trouble a sentence like that can bring you?"
I blinked, not quite following.
Her grip on my thin shoulder tightened, gradually becoming heavy. "When some people hear words like that, they take them seriously." Her voice dropped an octave. "They'll think you're provoking them, or… making a dangerous joke."
She tilted her head. The pressure on my shoulder didn't relax; I could almost hear the bone crying out.
"Keep me?" she repeated the word, her tone as if tasting something strange. "It means you'd be responsible for my food, my clothing, my safety, and my future. Right?"
I nodded, my heart rate starting to climb.
"Then do you know," she leaned forward, the distance between us so small I could see the curve of her eyelashes, "what kind of price must be paid to protect someone from harm?"
Her voice was light, a mere whisper, yet every word landed heavily in my heart.
"It's not a matter of money." She continued, her gaze sweeping over me. "It means you have to be constantly vigilant, able to handle sudden trouble, and able to stand in front when danger comes. You—"
Her other hand rose, her finger tapping lightly against my chest.
"—can you do that?"
The question wasn't as sharp as the last time, but for some reason, it made me even more uneasy. Her tone was too calm—unnervingly so.
Fear and frustration washed over me like ice water. But I didn't move.
Summoning courage from some unknown depth, I raised my trembling right hand. Instead of pushing her away, I placed it firmly and decisively over hers, which was still gripping my shoulder. My hand was smaller; it could only just cover her knuckles.
I tilted my head back, forcing myself to look directly into those cold eyes that seemed to see through everything.
"I… I'll do it." My voice shook, but I tried to make it clear. "I'm not playing. I'm serious. I swear."
Reze's pupils seemed to contract.
The icy sharpness in her gaze developed a visible crack under my stare and that clumsy vow. Something hidden and soft was touched, leaving her expression blank for a fleeting moment—there was even a flash of something bordering on panic.
Only two or three seconds passed, but it felt like a century.
Then, she let out a soft sigh. As if escaping, she pulled her hand back, but then reached out to pat the top of my head twice, like one would a stubborn little animal.
"…You little fool." Her voice returned to its usual pitch, but if I listened closely, I could detect a faint, underlying tension. "Don't go saying things like that to people."
She turned her back to me and walked toward the staff lockers. I stood frozen, the residual ache in my shoulder and the tender touch on my head interweaving, making my brain stall.
She pulled a paper bag from the locker, walked back, and held it out to me.
"But… thank you for being 'serious.' I'll accept the sentiment." Her gaze avoided mine, settling on the espresso machine instead. "Here. To celebrate your first paycheck. Stop thinking about 'keeping' people and be a little better to yourself first."
I took the bag. Inside was a new, soft, cream-colored apron—thicker than the shop's standard dark ones, with tiny, subtle coffee bean patterns embroidered on the edges. There was also a small, elegantly wrapped box of cookies; the scent of butter and almonds wafted through the gaps in the cardboard.
"Miss Reze…"
"Alright, go put your money away and don't waste it." She cut me off, beginning to pack her canvas bag with slightly more haste than usual. "I'm leaving first. Remember to lock up."
"Um… get home safely."
She didn't respond. She pushed open the door, the wind chime gave a crisp ring, and her silhouette melted into the night outside.
I held the bag, standing there for a long time. My shoulder still throbbed, but somewhere deep inside, a persistent, steady melting was taking place.
Like a seed beneath the frozen earth, I had begun to sprout.
────────────────────────────────────────
My : https://[email protected]/AuAuMon
Chainsaw Man : The Chainsaw Man World Doesn't Need a Perfect Idol (14 Chapters – Ongoing)
────────────────────────────────────────