EXTRA 2.2 – Canelé

[Akane's POV]


I rang the bell at exactly six-thirty. I had my own key. Everyone in this family did, but Grandpa preferred to open the door himself. He said it kept the house dignified.

When he saw the pastry box in my hands, his frown relaxed by a millimetre. “On time. Good. What is it?”

“Canelé. From that French place near my office.”

“Hmph. Foreign sugar lumps. We’ll see if they’re worth it.”

I stepped inside, slipping out of my shoes with military precision. Everything in this house gleamed: the polished wood floors, the paper doors, even the umbrella stand. Nothing out of place—unless you counted the old armchair he refused to replace in his study.

Grandpa padded ahead of me, upright despite his cane. In the living room, he sat cross-legged at his low table, neat cushions arranged just so.

“Sit. Don’t hover.”

I obeyed. I unboxed the canelé. Six perfect caramel-burnished domes, each a tiny rebellion against his usual rice crackers and green tea.

He plucked one up, turning it in his hand as if judging a gemstone. Then he bit in. The crunch echoed in the quiet room.

“Not bad. Better than your mother’s dry sponge,” he declared, wiping his mouth with his starched handkerchief.

“She tries,” I murmured, though we both knew she never tried half as hard as she pretended.

“You spoil me.” He almost smiled, eyes softening—a look no one else ever earned from him, not even Father.

“Someone has to,” I said, arranging the rest in a lacquered dish so he wouldn’t keep eating out of the cardboard box. “You said last week you wanted something proper.”

“Mm.” He ate another in two bites, then settled back with a satisfied sigh.

The room fell quiet again, the faint tick of the hall clock louder than our breathing. Sometimes I hated that silence. Sometimes it felt like the only place I could breathe.

“You work too hard,” he said, voice low but sharp enough to cut.

“You say that every time,” I answered, because he did—ever since I started shadowing Father at the company.

“And you never listen.” He huffed. “Don’t forget soft things. Sweet things. You’re still young enough for them.”

I pressed my palm flat on the tatami, grounding myself. “I remember.” A polite lie, maybe. Or a promise.

I gathered the empty wrappers, careful not to leave a crumb on his perfect table.

“Next week, bring matcha mochi. Not from the supermarket. From that old shop near the shrine.”

“I know the one.”

“Good girl.” He settled deeper into his cushion. “Leave the rest. I’ll finish them tonight.”

I packed the remaining canelé back in the box for him to have tomorrow, even though we both knew he’d eat them before bed.

Before leaving, I glanced once more at the clean room—nothing out of place except for us, lingering in this one soft moment neither of us would say aloud.

Somehow, that was enough sweetness for tonight.