The smell of burning told her of the third failure. The moment Hana opened the oven door, white smoke billowed out. She couldn't help but grimace. The baked confection, its surface blackened and discolored, sat in silence on the baking sheet. (Failed again.) She whispered it to herself, then immediately shifted her mindset. She covered the blackened pastry with cloth, tidied up the dishes, and moved on to the next step. There was no time to dwell on frustration or sadness. She could try again. That was all. The kitchen of Kagetsu-do was old. The wood stains on the walls, the creaking floorboards—everything had remained unchanged since her grandmother's time. Afternoon light streaming through the window created a white band across the thinly accumulated flour. On the nearby counter lay an open notebook. Its cover was worn smooth, its corners softened with age. It was the recipe notebook her grandmother had left behind. When she turned the pages, she found handwriting that was round