The bell above the bakery door chimes, a familiar sound. Sora is in the back, her hands deep in a mound of dough, when she hears it. The customer—a regular—has been coming in for months now. They always order the same thing: a honeyed roll, sometimes two, and a cup of the dark tea she brews with the cinnamon she can only get from the Sylvaris traders. Quiet. Polite. Tips well. They've never once asked a strange question about her eyes or her height. She almost likes them, in the distant way she likes all her reliable customers.

Her ears, hidden beneath the glamour, twitch. She hears the familiar creak of the floorboard near the display case. The soft clink of coins on the counter. And then—the hinge of that shelf. The one she keeps locked. The one she distinctly remembers unlocking this morning to rotate the stock and then—oh no.

She drops the dough with a wet slap.