The sign went up on a Thursday.
No bold font.
No attention-grabbing design.
Just a plain sheet of white printer paper, taped neatly in the center of the café window.
Roastery Gekkō will be closing at the end of the month.
Thank you for your memories.
That was it.
No explanation.
No farewell note from the owner.
Just the kind of announcement that didn't scream for attention—but quietly waited to be noticed, like everything else in this place.
---
Sakura read it three times.
Once while standing outside, her breath fogging the glass.
Once after she stepped in, coat still buttoned.
And once more as she sat at her usual seat by the window, hands folded in her lap like she was bracing for something.
She didn't ask.
Riku didn't offer.
He stood behind the counter, still as ever, sleeves rolled, eyes fixed on the espresso machine like it might save him from having to say the words.
Instead, he made her latte.
Foam perfect.
Her name written in soft, curling hiragana like always.
Only this time, it sank faster.
The warmth still lingered. But the magic—the quiet sense of continuity—felt like it had already begun slipping away.
---
The café felt... different.
Same playlist of mellow jazz drifting low like smoke.
Same chairs, creaky and familiar.
Same scent of coffee beans, faint citrus, and that undertone of polished wood that had always made Gekkō feel older than it was.
But something had shifted.
Like the room had already started saying goodbye.
The corners seemed quieter.
The light felt borrowed.
The air carried the weight of finality.
Riku brought his own drink and sat across from her. No apron today. Just a dark hoodie with a faint stain on the cuff and a silence that matched hers too well.
---
Sakura was the first to speak.
Her voice low, even.
"When?"
He didn't look up right away.
Then: "Last day of the month."
She nodded once. Slowly.
"And after that?"
Riku smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"After that... I guess I go back to dreaming again."
---
They sat in that sentence for a long while.
Neither touched their drinks.
The silence between them built slowly—not sharp, not awkward.
Just the kind of silence that builds and breaks at the same time.
Like grief and gratitude trying to sit at the same table.
Finally, Sakura asked, "You called it Roastery Gekkō. Why that name?"
Riku leaned back a little, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as if he could find his answer etched in the paint.
"Gekkō means 'moonlight,'" he said. "My mom used to say that even in the darkest night, coffee should feel like moonlight. Gentle. Quiet. Never blinding."
Sakura watched him closely.
"I thought it was just poetic branding."
He shook his head, smile faint. "It was a promise."
"To her?"
"To myself," he replied.
"To keep the light on," he added after a beat. "Even if no one's looking."
She held her cup a little tighter.
Then asked, quietly:
"Was I part of that promise?"
He didn't flinch.
Didn't deflect.
Just looked at her—fully.
"You were the only part I never planned for," he said.
---
Outside, the clouds shifted just slightly.
A weak sunbeam pierced through, dancing across the counter, lighting dust in the air like tiny stars—just for a moment.
Then it was gone again.
But they'd seen it.
And somehow, that mattered.
---
Sakura inhaled, her voice calm but trembling around the edges.
"Maybe it's good."
"That it's closing?" Riku asked, confused.
"That life doesn't freeze," she said. "We don't get to keep moments in glass jars. Maybe we're meant to sip them once... and then move forward."
He studied her face.
The eyes that had once been unreadable now carried clarity, not because they had no secrets left—but because she was no longer afraid to keep them.
"You sound like someone preparing to leave," he said.
She didn't blink.
"I'm not," she said.
He said nothing.
Then she added, gently:
"Not unless you want me to."
Riku looked down at his hands.
Fingers ink-stained from notes he never showed anyone. Nails short from nervous habits. Palms that had memorized the pressure of every cup handle in this place.
He wanted to say stay.
He wanted to say don't go.
But what he actually said was:
"I've spent so long trying to preserve this place. This feeling. Like if I kept everything the same, you'd never leave. Like the version of you that drinks lattes here would stay frozen in time."
He exhaled.
"But you can't freeze moonlight."
He looked at her again.
"You can only follow it."
---
Their phones buzzed.
Both of them.
At the same time.
Neither moved.
The moment was already thick—ripe, trembling, quiet.
Finally, Sakura reached for her phone and turned the screen toward him.
Riku did the same.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from choosing what this really means.
____________•••____________
She stared at it.
Then at him.
And for the first time since the sign went up, Riku didn't feel afraid.
Not of endings.
Not of beginnings.
Just... aware. That whatever they chose next would be the blend they brewed themselves.
He looked at her.
"Do you believe in fate, Sakura?" he asked.
Sakura didn't hesitate.
"I believe in moments," she said. "And I think we're out of excuses."
---
That night, after she left, Riku stayed behind.
He wiped the counters.
Turned the chairs upside down.
Switched off the heater.
Then stood behind the bar a long time, just looking.
The cups stacked in perfect rows.
The chalkboard with an old quote that no one remembered writing.
The books she once flipped through on rainy days. The napkins with half-written poems. The cracked mug she always reached for first.
He picked up his notebook—creased, splattered, worn.
Turned to the first clean page.
And wrote something new at the top.
(The Sakura Special)
No price.
No ingredients.
Just a name.
And the memory that made it eternal.