I kept my eyes open until the first streak of grayish-white light filtered through the skylight.
My body was exhausted, feeling as though it had been dismantled and reassembled, but my mind was unnaturally sharp. The suffocating sensation of the sludge rising past my chest, the muffled roar of the explosion, that blurry silhouette vanishing at the mouth of the alley—these images replayed in the darkness like a broken record.
And then there was that faint, lingering scent in the air. Coffee mixed with something... was it perfume? Or...
I shook my head and buried my face in the pillow. I couldn't think about it anymore.
6:20 AM. Time to get up.
The person in the mirror was pale, with dark circles hanging under her eyes. The scrapes on my elbows had already scabbed over, and the spots on my legs where the sludge had touched were still flushed red—but the apron should be enough to hide them. I stared at myself for a long time, suddenly wondering: if I had truly died last night, who would be standing here now? Would anyone have even noticed I was gone?
The thought sent a shiver through me.
Downstairs, open the doors, clean. The movements were mechanical, but each one served as a reminder: I was still alive. As the rag wiped the tabletops, I remembered the way Reze had demonstrated it; as the mop glided across the floor, I remembered her saying, "Use your wrists."
At 7:40 AM, the manager arrived. At 8:00 AM sharp, I stopped my work.
The wind chime didn't ring.
She was late. Reze was never late.
My heart suddenly began to pound. All sorts of possibilities flooded my mind: Was she hurt? Had something happened to her? Or... was she someone else entirely, someone I didn't understand at all?
At 8:03 AM, the door opened.
"Morning!" Reze's voice was as full of life as ever, like a breath of fresh morning air. She walked in wearing a beige shirt and dark trousers, her hair tied meticulously. A shallow smile rested on her face, and her eyes were bright—she showed absolutely no sign of anything out of the ordinary.
"G-good morning." My voice was a little dry.
She hung up her coat, tied her apron, and stepped behind the bar to start preparing the first pot of coffee. Everything was exactly the same as it had been for the past seven days.
I watched her covertly. The movement of her fingers as she brewed coffee, the arc of her hair when she turned, the smile she gave when greeting customers—every detail was comforting in its familiarity. How could the silhouette that had caused an explosion in a dark alley last night, turning a devil to ash, possibly be the same person now humming a tune while fiddling with coffee beans?
But... the profile of her face as she looked back, the height of her ponytail, the width of her shoulders...
"Hong Xin?" Reze's voice rang out suddenly.
I startled, nearly dropping the rag in my hand.
"The water's boiling." She pointed to the kettle behind me, steam huffing from the spout.
"Ah, sorry!" I hurriedly flipped the switch.
Reze chuckled but said nothing, returning to her beans. The smile was natural, her eyes even holding a bit of teasing—just like how she usually looked when she caught me acting clumsy.
Maybe I was overthinking it. When people are in a state of extreme fear, the brain weaves all sorts of stories to comfort itself. That silhouette was just some passing Devil Hunter. Miss Reze was just Miss Reze—my colleague, the person teaching me how to brew coffee.
I had to believe that.
The morning shift unfolded as usual. Mrs. Fujiwara came in and ordered her hot black tea as always; office workers hurried in and out; a few schoolgirls chattered over their orders while Reze patiently gave them recommendations.
Everything was so normal. So normal that it made my experience from the previous night feel like an absurd dream.
At lunch, the manager made curry. The three of us sat together, and Reze told a joke she'd seen on TV yesterday—something about a cat that knew how to open a refrigerator. She told it vividly, and even the manager laughed.
"Didn't you stay up late binge-watching a show last night? You still had time for animal programs?" the manager asked casually.
"I watched it before bed," Reze answered naturally, scooping up a spoonful of curry. "That cat was smart, truly."
A small section of her wrist was exposed as she moved. I stared at it for two seconds—the skin was smooth, without a single mark. No red welts, no friction burns, nothing.
I really had been mistaken. The light had been so dim last night, and I had been so terrified; it was only natural to see things wrong.
I felt a surge of relief, but also a strange, inexplicable sense of loss. If that silhouette wasn't Reze, it meant... she had no idea what I had gone through. The person who saved me was a stranger. And Reze was just living her life, same as always.
That was for the best. That was for the very best.
In the afternoon, I was in the back room washing cups. The sound of running water splashed loudly as I stared blankly at the suds.
"Hong Xin." Reze walked in.
I turned to see her leaning against the doorframe, holding a cup—the same model I had broken this morning. She placed it on the rack and said, "Use this one. Don't break it again; it's the last one in stock."
"...Thank you."
She didn't leave, but instead turned on the tap to wash her hands. We stood side-by-side, our reflections mirrored in the glass. Her hair was a bit messy, with a few stray strands falling by her temples. She raised a hand to tuck them back—a casual gesture that revealed the smooth side of her neck.
I definitely overthought it. Miss Reze is just a kind, lovely girl. She couldn't possibly have anything to do with darkness or devils. Yes, that's it.
"Yesterday..." she began suddenly, her voice slightly muffled by the sound of the water. "Did you go straight back after closing?"
I squeezed the sponge in my hand. "Yes. I went back right after taking out the trash."
"Nothing happened, did it?"
The question was so ordinary, like asking "Have you eaten?" But my heart still skipped a beat.
"N-nothing," I said. "The alley was just a bit dark... I was scaring myself."
She turned off the tap, flicked the water from her hands, and then turned her face toward me. The afternoon sun streamed through the high window, casting soft light and shadow across her features. This angle, this profile...
"Tokyo nights aren't always safe," she said, her tone casual. "Try to stick to the main roads from now on. It's a bit longer, but it's safer."
"...Okay."
She nodded and walked out. I stood there, looking at my own face in the mirror—pale, uneasy, with dark circles under my eyes.
What exactly was I hoping for? Was I hoping she'd admit that the person last night was her? Was I hoping she'd tell me that the world was actually more dangerous than I imagined, and that she had been protecting me in the shadows?
No, I shouldn't hope for that. What I should hope for is that she shows up on time for work tomorrow morning, that she continues to teach me how to brew coffee, and that after closing, she occasionally says, "Let's go get ramen."
I just want to live a mundane life. To have a job, a home, and someone to talk to. That's enough.
As for anything else... I don't want to know.
In the evening, Mr. Yamaguchi came by again. Reze brewed him some chamomile tea and sat with him for a while. I watched from behind the counter, and something deep inside me slowly softened.
This was Reze. The Reze who was kind to lonely old men. The Reze who silently replaced a cup when I broke one. The Reze who told me "You can try" when I said "I can't do it."
How could I doubt a person like that?
We did the cleaning together at closing. Reze wiped the tables while I mopped. The shop was quiet, filled only with the sound of cloth on wood and our occasional footsteps.
"See you tomorrow," she said as she tied her scarf.
"See you tomorrow." I paused, then added, "Um... thank you for the cup today."
She blinked, then smiled—a genuine smile that made her eyes crinkle. "Don't mention it. Take good care of it."
She reached the door and looked back. "Goodnight, Hong Xin."
"...Goodnight."
The wind chime jingled, and she was gone.
In the attic, I opened my notebook. The pages were covered in messy, unconscious scribbles. Looking closely, it was the silhouette of a woman—black hair, a raised wrist...
I stared at the drawing for a long time. Then I picked up the pen and began to scrawl over the figure, frantically, over and over again, until the silhouette was completely buried under black lines, unrecognizable.
I tore the page out, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in the trash.
I was afraid.
If I went looking for the truth, if I went asking questions, then the routine I had worked so hard to build—the warmth, the scent of coffee, and the sound of "goodnight"—might all collapse.
I would much rather be a fool. A happy, ignorant fool.
I told myself: Let it stay like this. Like this is fine.
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