The notification sound went off again. 白月玲奈 kept her smartphone screen face-down as she retied the strings of her apron. The comment section of last night's post—the one that had surpassed 32,000 likes—continued to swell even as morning broke. "Can I make a reservation?" "I'm coming today." "Do you still have any Tsukishirado羹?" The text flowed, and flowed again. (I'm the one who called them.) That realization spread slowly through her chest in the thin morning light. A lukewarm sensation—neither hope nor anxiety. She ran down the stairs of Yanaka-sou, crossed the stone-paved approach. When she reached the bottom of the Renka slope—the 32-step stone staircase leading to the alley where Tsukishirado stood—玲奈 stopped. There were people. Three groups at the base of the slope. Two women in their thirties with bags slung over their shoulders, a young man using his smartphone as a map, and what looked like an elderly couple. The shop wouldn't open for another twenty minutes. Yet all of them were facing her way, waiting. (This is bad. We only have eight Tsukishirado羹.) 玲奈 nodded to the women she'd made eye contact with and hurried inside the noren curtain. "Grandma." She called toward the kitchen entrance. No answer came. Instead, she heard the low, rhythmic sound of nerikiri being kneaded. "There are people outside already. Three groups." "I see." One word. Her hands didn't stop. 澄江's silver-white hair was neatly tied back, her back continuing its work with steady calm. That composure felt almost resentful to 玲奈 right now. "How many Tsukishirado羹 can you make today?" "Eight." "...Right." No response. Hands moved. White bean paste took shape again. 玲奈 stood in front of the glass case with its wooden frame and checked the price list. Nerikiri: 380 yen each. Assorted premium sweets: 2,200 yen. Tsukishirado羹: 1,800 yen per piece. She pulled out the calculator from the drawer. The register was an old mechanical model, and for 玲奈, who wasn't confident in mental math, it was a reliable ally. The moment the shop opened, the two women from before slipped through the noren. "Do you have Tsukishirado羹?" "Yes, we do. Today we have eight available—" "I'll take two!" "Oh, I'll take two as well." "...Understood." She tapped the calculator. 1,800 yen × 4 pieces. 7,200 yen. Her hands trembled slightly as she bagged them. The next customer came in. Again: "Do you have Tsukishirado羹?" Four left. Another customer. Someone who wanted to take a photo. "Of course," 玲奈 said, but inside she was doing different calculations. Four left, sales from eight pieces at 14,400 yen, about one-tenth of the monthly revenue in a single day—wait, add the nerikiri first—where's the calculator, where is it? "Um, can you choose what goes in the assorted sweets?" "Well, we include seasonal items, and today we have..." 玲奈 leaned toward the case and suddenly remembered she was still holding a bag. Bag in her right hand, calculator in her left, and a female customer was asking to borrow her camera, now peering through the lens. Five people in the six-mat sales space. (The design only fits a maximum of four people on the raised platform—!) "Please wait just a moment." 玲奈 kept smiling as she set the calculator on the counter. She placed the bag on top of the case. She tried to clear the small table on the raised platform for the woman with the camera, then remembered yesterday's ledger was sitting there. She hurried to cradle the ledger in her arms. The calculator fell. *Clang.* 澄江's voice came from the back of the kitchen. "玲奈." "Y-yes!" "Before the calculator, look at your customers' faces." It was a quiet voice, but it carried. All five people in the sales space froze for a moment. 玲奈 froze too. Then—for some reason, the elderly woman smiled softly. "This is tough work." "...Thank you." When 玲奈 said that reflexively, the two women laughed as well. Strangely, the atmosphere eased a little. 玲奈 took a slow breath, picked up the calculator, and this time looked up at the customers before turning to face them. --- Just after 10 a.m., the wave receded. Tsukishirado羹: sold out. Nerikiri: about half remaining. 玲奈 sat on the edge of the raised platform and took a sip of cooled hojicha. Her legs felt weak. In less than two hours, she'd handled several times the usual number of customers. (This whole shop was designed for eight people.) The glass case, the number of seats on the platform, the amount 澄江 could make in a day. Tsukishirado had been built from the start for eight people. Not to answer 30,000 "I'm coming" messages. The noren swayed. "Welcome..." 玲奈 began, rising to her feet, then stopped. The person who entered didn't look like a customer—like something else entirely. Black hair with red mesh mixed through wavy strands, vertical-slit pupils of deep blue, around 180 centimeters tall. A leather bracelet on his right wrist. He wore a well-tailored thin jacket, but the collar was slightly loose. Not the eyes of someone coming to pitch something. At least not in this moment. The man didn't approach the counter. He crouched in front of the glass case. He just stared inside. His mouth seemed to be saying something silently. Confirming the names of the sweets, perhaps. His gaze traced carefully over each nerikiri. (Who is this person?) 玲奈 stood watching his profile. Then 澄江 emerged from the kitchen. A small tray with hojicha and a plate of nerikiri. She saw the man crouching before the case and narrowed her eyes. Thin as threads, sharp. 玲奈 didn't miss that look. "Please, have some here." 澄江 set the tray on the raised platform. The man looked slightly surprised, stood up, and said, "Ah... thank you very much." Then he reached into his jacket's inner pocket. He pulled out a business card and offered it with both hands. 玲奈 took it. Zuiko Foods Corporation—68 years since founding, 38 billion yen in annual revenue, a major confectionery manufacturer—Business Development Division, 葉山陸斗. Something inside 玲奈's smile froze solid. (They came.) "I'm 白月玲奈. Did you see our recent social media post?" "Yes. Right after it was posted last night. It really went viral." "Thank you." Her smile didn't crack. But inside, she was doing different calculations. There was only one reason Zuiko Foods would contact Tsukishirado. 陸斗 sat on the raised platform. He took a sip of hojicha and looked at the nerikiri on the plate. Something 澄江 had finished this morning. A pale pink flower shape, suited to the season. "May I...eat this?" "Please." 澄江 answered from the kitchen entrance. Those narrow eyes watching 陸斗 again. 陸斗 picked up chopsticks. One bite. His mouth stopped moving. For just an instant, his expression shifted. The face he'd been maintaining—pleasant, competent, carefully calibrated distance—peeled away. "...Delicious." A small voice. Not a salesman's voice. 玲奈 watched the change from behind the counter. 陸斗 looked up and spoke to 澄江. "We have a product line called the Washo Series. We're developing a premium line through partnerships with established brands—" "I know about it." 澄江 answered. Her voice was calm, but she didn't invite him to continue. "I was hoping we could borrow Tsukishirado's name and the Tsukishirado羹 recipe in a supervisory capacity. We'd offer 白月 a contract at 4.8 million yen annually, and Tsukishirado 5 million yen for equipment investment—" "Equipment renovation costs 1.8 million, so the math works out." The words came out before 玲奈 could stop them. 陸斗 looked at her, slightly surprised. 玲奈 shifted her gaze to 澄江. 澄江 was looking at her hojicha. A beat passed. "We make these for people to eat here." 澄江's voice was quiet. Not a refusal. But not an acceptance either. Just stating fact. 陸斗 was silent for a moment. 玲奈 felt an invisible line drawn between them. She was standing on that line. Unable to move to either side. "...I see." 陸斗 said that. He seemed to be searching for what came next, then picked up his chopsticks again. Another bite. This time he closed his eyes, slowly savoring just the taste. "To be honest," 陸斗 said, setting down his chopsticks. He looked up. His gaze went straight to 澄江. "The products I've worked on until now suddenly feel embarrassing." Silence. "Why?" "Sweetness adjusted to specifications. Ingredients adjusted to cost. Size that fits on shelves. Everything was the opposite of what I just ate." 玲奈 kept her guard up, but something was accumulating. This person is serious, a certainty that quietly, layer by layer, was building. Not a salesman's words. Self-criticism. Something strange happened in her chest. (What is this strange feeling?) 澄江 stood. She picked up the empty plate and looked at 陸斗. "I like honest people." That was all. She returned to the kitchen. Her back announced the end of the conversation. --- 玲奈 walked 陸斗 to the noren. As he stepped onto the stone pavement outside, he turned back. "Today, I came as a salesman." "I know." "May I come again as a customer?" 玲奈 was about to say "anytime." Her mouth half-opened. Then she stopped. Tsukishirado羹: eight pieces. Today they sold out in two hours. Tomorrow might be the same. "Anytime" would be a lie. The door she'd opened to 30,000 people had only one panel. "When we have Tsukishirado羹 again." 陸斗's expression shifted slightly. Not quite a smile, but something eased. "Understood." That was all. He descended the Renka slope. She saw his hand, wearing the leather bracelet, touch the stone railing. 玲奈 watched his back disappear around the corner of the alley, then noticed something. Her cheeks were warm. (...Why?) She tried to think of a reason, then stopped. There were more important things to think about now. Equipment renovation costs of 1.8 million, monthly revenue of 360,000 yen, a morning when 30,000 people pressed against a shop designed for eight, and today she still couldn't serve them properly. The problems could be organized. But her emotions had moved first, which was inconvenient. She straightened the noren. The indigo-dyed cloth absorbed the evening light. --- Evening came. 玲奈 was walking through the alley near Yanaka Ginza shopping street, carrying a rice bag in her arms. Five kilos dug into both arms. On the way back to Yanaka-sou, turning down a familiar alley, someone called out to her. "You're the girl from 白月's place?" In front of "Kano-gura," a pickle specialty shop—45 years in business, run by 堂前義春, chairman of the Yanaka Commerce Association—堂前 was closing the rain shutters. 67 years old, sturdy build, white mixed into his eyebrows. His eyes were gentle, but now something dwelt in them. "Yes. I'm 白月玲奈." "Today, in front of our shop," 堂前 said, releasing the shutter. "Several people came by with their smartphones out, asking where Tsukishirado was." "...I see." The rice bag pressed harder into her arms. 堂前 wasn't accusing. But she understood what he meant. "I thought it might've been better if you'd said something to the neighboring shops before things got this big." Something fell inside 玲奈's head. The "greeting at the doorstep" custom of the Yanaka Commerce Association. Before starting something new, you greet the five nearest shops—an unwritten rule of Yanaka's shopping street. 玲奈 had completely, utterly forgotten it. SNS post timing, optimal hours, hashtag composition—she'd thought only about that, forgetting to bow at five doorsteps. "...I'm sorry." Her voice got smaller. 堂前 nodded. He wasn't angry. "澄江 used to do it too, you know. Before starting anything new, she'd always go around greeting everyone first. That's how things work around here." That said, he went back inside the shop. The lattice door closed quietly. 玲奈 stood alone in the alley. She'd moved 30,000 people on social media. She'd created a morning when strangers crowded under Tsukishirado's noren for the first time. But she'd forgotten to speak to five neighbors. 30,000 and five. She'd gotten the order wrong. (You remember t