The sky cracked open the next day—
not with thunder, not with rain—
but with light.
Golden shafts of morning sun spilled between the ribs of high-rise buildings, like fingers parting curtains after a long sleep.
They touched rooftops and windows, caught particles of dust mid-air, and painted shadows across the city like brushstrokes on canvas.
Alive, it all felt.
Not loud.
Not fast.
But... present.
And within that quiet brilliance, Roastery Gekkō came to life.
The bell above the door hadn't chimed yet. The espresso machine hummed softly. Outside, the world moved in commuter rhythms, but inside, the café breathed at its own pace.
Today's jazz was softer than usual.
Just a piano—delicate, improvisational, touched by spring.
Riku stood behind the counter, apron tied, hair slightly messier than usual, one sleeve rolled higher than the other. His hands weren't busy—not really—but they fidgeted just enough to give him away.
He'd opened the café carefully that morning.
Watered the plants by the window.
Wiped down the chalkboard menu with slow, even strokes.
He'd left her seat untouched.
The one in the corner with the perfect balance of light and shade.
He didn't know if she'd come.
But he hoped.
---
She did.
At 9:43 a.m., the bell above the door gave its soft chime.
Sakura stepped in, scarf folded in her hand, hair pulled back with a clip she hadn't worn before—simple, matte silver, like the moon on a quiet night.
Her gaze swept the room once, then settled on him.
And something was different.
Not her posture.
Not her pace.
But her eyes.
They weren't guarded today.
Weren't distant.
Just slightly open.
Like a door not fully shut.
She walked to the counter without a word.
Riku didn't ask.
Just nodded, turned, and prepared her drink like muscle memory—grinding, tamping, pouring, steaming. He didn't hesitate. His hands moved with the familiarity of someone doing something for the right reasons.
And when the cup was ready, he turned it toward her.
Her name again.
さくら. (Sakura)
Delicate, clean, written in foam like a promise.
She took the cup gently, holding it with both hands. But instead of walking to her usual corner…
She looked at him.
"Sit with me?" she asked.
Three words.
Simple. But they felt like a turning point.
Riku blinked.
Then slowly untied his apron.
Behind him, Ayumu, the part-time college student who worked Tuesdays, gave a silent thumbs-up from the kitchen doorway. She didn't say a word—just smirked knowingly and stepped up to the register with the casual ease of someone who had already shipped this scene in her head a dozen times.
---
They sat at Sakura's usual table, the one with the light that always seemed to land in perfect symmetry.
Two cups sat between them. Steam curling upward in fragile spirals. Sunlight painted gold edges around their fingers.
For a long while, neither of them said anything.
Then:
"Do you think," Sakura began, "that time is linear?"
Riku blinked once. "That's… not where I thought this conversation was going."
She gave a small smile—not amused, but thoughtful.
"I mean it," she said, sipping from her latte. "Because it doesn't feel that way."
"What does it feel like?"
"Moments. Isolated ones. Like islands scattered in fog. Some you remember. Some you miss. And some… choose you."
He paused, letting the words settle in.
"I like that," he finally said. "Moments as islands."
Sakura nodded slowly.
She continued, "Yesterday—at the crosswalk—it didn't feel like part of a timeline. It didn't feel connected to what came before or after. It just… existed. Like a flag planted in memory."
"A moment."
"Yes," she whispered. "And I've had very few of those."
Riku lowered his gaze to the steam rising from his drink. He watched it curl and vanish like thoughts escaping language.
Then, slowly, he pulled out his phone from his coat pocket.
Sakura raised an eyebrow, puzzled.
A second later, her phone buzzed too.
They both looked down at their screens.
Same message. Same second.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from knowing this was never random.
____________•••____________
Sakura exhaled—sharp, soft, disbelieving.
Their eyes met.
"Maybe it's not a bug," Riku murmured.
"Maybe it's real," she whispered.
He tilted his head. "Some kind of signal?"
"From what?"
"I don't know. The universe. Time. Something watching us."
"Fate," she said, almost to herself. "Or maybe… us."
She placed her phone on the table, screen still lit, the message lingering like a quiet voice in the room.
"Sometimes," she said, "I feel like I'm inside someone else's story. Like I was written into a background role and forgot how to step forward."
Riku's voice came gently. "You're not a background character."
Sakura didn't respond.
So he added, even softer, "You're the one I always notice first."
She looked at him sharply.
But not in disbelief.
More like… vulnerability.
Like something in her was both terrified and grateful that someone had seen her at all.
Outside, the city didn't stop.
Cars moved.
Buses hissed.
Cyclists swerved through the side streets.
But none of it entered this space between them.
It felt like time had folded, wrapped itself around their table like a cocoon.
All that remained were the two of them.
And the question: Was this the start of something or the middle of something they hadn't yet named?
---
A man passed by the window.
Stranger. Early 30s. Casual coat. Leather bag.
He walked slowly. Glanced inside.
Saw them.
Paused.
Smiled to himself.
Then walked on.
Neither Riku nor Sakura noticed him right away.
Until...
Both phones pinged.
Just once.
A soft, unfamiliar tone.
They blinked. Reached for their devices.
But when they did...
nothing.
No new message.
No alert.
No app open.
Just their lock screens.
Sakura tapped to refresh.
Still nothing.
"Did you hear that?" she asked.
"I did," Riku said. "But…"
They looked at each other again.
No more words.
Only the kind of silence that doesn't feel empty—
but meaningful.
A space where connection forms.
Not because anything was said.
But because something was understood.
---
And just like that—
they returned to their drinks.
Not because the moment passed.
But because it had already become memory.
A new one.
Isolated. Lit in gold. Chosen.
One moment.