Haruto woke up to the smell of bread again.
This time, it wasn't strange or new. It was comforting.
Sunlight poured through the window, painting the wooden floor in gold. Outside, he could hear the sound of people already starting their day—footsteps on cobblestone, a horse cart rolling by, and someone calling out to sell vegetables in the square.
He sat up and stretched.
It had been a week since he woke up in this world—in Evermere. A small, quiet town where everyone seemed to know everyone else.
Kaori, the woman who ran the bakery, had let him stay in a small room above the shop. "Until you can find your feet," she had said with a smile. But Haruto found that he didn't want to leave just yet.
He liked the rhythm of the bakery.
He liked the warmth of the oven.
And he liked the way Evermere woke up every morning—slow and peaceful, like the world itself was taking a deep breath.
Downstairs, Kaori was already busy. She was kneading dough with strong, steady hands, her brown hair tied up under a white scarf. The smell of flour filled the air.
"Good morning, Haruto," she said without looking up. "The loaves won't bake themselves, you know."
"Good morning, Kaori-san."
He washed his hands and joined her. His movements were clumsy at first, but he was getting better. Kaori had taught him how to shape the dough, how to let it rest, and how to know when it was ready—not by counting time, but by feeling.
"Bread listens to you," Kaori always said. "You just have to listen back."
They worked side by side in silence, the only sound being the soft thump of dough and the crackle of the fire. Haruto liked this quiet. It reminded him of peace—something he hadn't known in his old life.
By mid-morning, the bakery smelled heavenly.
Fresh loaves lined the counter, and the first customers began to arrive.
An old man came for his usual rye bread.
Two little children ran in for sweet rolls.
And a kind-looking lady brought a basket to trade eggs for a loaf.
"Good morning, Haruto!" one of the kids said cheerfully. "Are you helping Miss Kaori again?"
Haruto nodded. "That's right. Want me to pack your rolls for you?"
The boy grinned and watched him work. The girl whispered, "He's so serious," and both giggled before running out again, waving their treats in the air.
Haruto couldn't help but laugh.
The people here were simple, but happy. Their smiles were real. It made him wonder how he had lived so long without ever stopping to enjoy something as small as this.
Later that day, Kaori brought him outside. The sun was high, and the town square was alive. Stalls sold fruits, fabrics, and flowers. The air smelled of honey and roasted nuts.
"You should see more of the town," Kaori said. "You've been stuck in the bakery for too long."
"I don't mind working," Haruto said with a smile. "It's peaceful here."
Kaori raised an eyebrow. "Peaceful is good. But peace is sweeter when you share it. Go walk around. Meet people. Evermere will open its heart to you if you let it."
So he did.
He walked down narrow streets, past houses with red-tilted roofs and children playing with wooden hoops. He greeted people, and they greeted him back—kindly, like he already belonged.
Near the river, he stopped to watch the water. The surface glittered like glass. A group of ducks floated by, and for a moment, Haruto forgot everything else.
I really was reborn, he thought.
In another world. In a town that feels like a dream.
As he turned to go back, he saw something strange.
By the bridge, a young girl was standing alone, holding a basket of flowers. She looked about ten or eleven, with light brown hair and clear green eyes. What caught his attention wasn't her appearance—it was that she was staring at him, silently.
Haruto gave a small smile. "Hello there."
The girl tilted her head. "You're not from here."
He blinked. "How did you know?"
"I just do," she said softly. "Evermere knows who belongs and who doesn't."
Haruto didn't know what to say. The girl smiled faintly and held out a small white flower.
"For you," she said. "Welcome to Evermere."
Before he could ask her name, she turned and ran off toward the fields, her basket swinging at her side.
Haruto looked down at the flower in his hand. Its petals shimmered faintly in the light—not like normal flowers do, but almost as if they were glowing from within.
He stood there for a long time, staring at it, feeling something stir inside his chest—something he couldn't name.
Finally, he smiled.
"Thank you," he whispered to the empty air.
That night, after closing the bakery, Haruto placed the little flower in a glass of water by his bed. The glow was faint now, almost gone, but it still filled the room with a quiet, gentle light.
He lay down and closed his eyes.
He could hear the faint hum of the village—laughter in the distance, the rustle of the wind through the trees, and the soft chime of the church bell.
Evermere, he thought before sleep came.
Maybe I was meant to be here.
And for the first time in years—maybe in two lives—Haruto dreamed not of work or cities or loneliness…
but of morning sunlight, warm bread, and a town that whispered his name.