The café has fallen into a kind of sacred silence.
Chairs tucked beneath tables. The lights dimmed to a soft, golden hum—just enough to see, not enough to chase away the intimacy of closing hour.
The sign on the glass door has been flipped to Closed, its letters facing the street like a quiet farewell.
Sum wipes his face with the back of his hand. A streak of cake cream clings to his cheek. White dust from spilled flour clings to his shirt—settled into the fabric like snow that refused to melt.
He brushes at it, frowning at the mess, but there's something boyish about the way he does it.
Unbothered. Almost proud.
Alara laughs—a warm, rolling sound that fills the empty spaces. "You're still a little kid," she says.
Sum's pout is immediate. Dramatic. "Jane started it."
Jane raises both hands, palms out, eyes wide with exaggerated innocence. "Stop babbling and covering up your mistakes."
Sum winks at him. Playful. A flicker of mischief passing between them like a secret.
