The dream returns unchanged, as if someone had etched it onto a film reel that runs on its own, like a movie in a theater, without asking anyone's permission.
The forest. The light of dawn. The wheat swaying. A dark figure seen from behind, hair cascading past her hips, the white dress slicing through the gold of the grain. I call out to her — no answer. Hands emerge from the earth, cold, deliberate, gripping my ankles. She turns slightly, in profile.
The whisper passes through me:
"It's a scent that brings you home."
And I fall into darkness.
I wake with a start, my heart pounding against my chest like a fist on wood.
"An hero shouldn't be daydreaming like this..." I mutter into the darkness of the room, almost annoyed at myself for dreaming of beautiful women.
But dreams don't ask permission, unfortunately. They always return, and the night—stubborn as ever—claims them back for itself.
I dress slowly, making no noise. Today, like always, I step out in my true form: the muscles slacken slightly, my back bends a little, my breath grows shallow. The wound throbs today—probably means it'll rain later. I leave the house very early and, before heading to the institute, I take the same detour to the bakery, just like yesterday.
I need bread—more than coffee, more than words.
I open the door with a firm motion; the little bell above my head rings—ding. Inside, it's warm and welcoming. The baker from yesterday is already behind the counter, apron spotless, hands moving fast. But in front of me stands a woman who wasn't there yesterday: black hair, straight, reaching halfway down her back (maybe longer, though the beige coat covers part of it); not very tall, slender, with a composed posture.
She's choosing among the loaves lined up like soldiers at the changing of the guard, tracing a finger along the glass and smiling like a child on Christmas morning.
"Good morning, miss!" chirps the baker, smiling. "What can I get you today?"
The woman tilts her head slightly. "A whole loaf, please."
The baker grabs the knife and, as usual, taps the crust to hear the sound. "Just out of the oven. The dough rose perfectly today... do you smell that?"
The woman inhales, waving a hand in a small but full gesture. She smiles—just a little. "Yes... it's a scent that brings you home, don't you think?"
The knife meets the wood. The paper rustles in her hands as I... I go rigid.
For an instant, I no longer feel the warmth of the oven—only the phrase echoing inside me, the perfect reflection of the dream. Identical in rhythm. Identical in the weight with which it lands on my chest.
I look at her—truly, this time. Not with intrusive eyes, but with presence. I take half a step forward. My shadow reaches past me and stops just before touching her. She doesn't seem to notice: her gaze follows, almost spellbound, the baker's hands wrapping the loaf, as if that gesture held some secret ritual.
The baker chuckles softly. "Ah, the oven speaks! Whoever works with it, in the end, belongs to it forever. Yes, yes, that's how it is!"
I stand there, incredulous. One part of me—the part that's taken too many crossroads to believe in coincidences—snaps to attention and raises its antennae. The other—the one that knows the discipline of the Symbol of Peace—brings my thoughts to order: control the breath. Analyze. Prioritize.
I move another half-step closer, until my elbow lines up with hers. I say nothing. Not yet. I listen to myself first.
Don't let yourself be carried away... don't get emotional. It's just bread. It's just a phrase. You think so?
No. It isn't just a phrase. It's the threshold of every night.
So then? What are you looking for, Toshinori? A clue? A prophecy? Or just an excuse to admit you miss "home"?
A hero doesn't lean on dreams. A hero leans on duty. And yet... duty without a home is only endurance. And you're tired of enduring, aren't you?
I feel the weight of my presence fill the shop. My eyes widen as I try to pull myself together, clearing my throat. Usually, I use my presence to reassure, to calm... but today, for the first time, it betrays me: I can feel it trembling.
The woman in front of me takes the loaf from the baker's hands, thanking her with a polite nod. Her fingers are slender; they handle the bread as if it were something alive.
The phrase keeps echoing inside me. But let's examine every crack, young reader.
Why that phrase, of all things? Why here, of all places?
The dream had taught me the fear of diving too deep; reality places before me the temptation to draw closer.
If I speak, will I break something? If I stay silent, do I let the night decide the fate of the day as well?
Do you remember what that boy said yesterday? "I don't have to be invincible—just useful."
Useful to whom, now? To the students, of course. But also to the man who must know when fate is speaking to him in a low voice.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs (or what's left of them). The oven radiates warmth like the beginning of all things, and the scent of bread does the rest: it softens the edges, opens the space around me.
I take the last step I need to be near without intruding.
I don't speak her name—I don't know it. I don't touch her shoulder—it isn't my right. I look into her eyes. I study her profile the way one studies a map before a mission: without haste, but with respect.
And in the meantime, I impose on myself a simple rule — a soldier's rule:
I won't make promises I can't keep; but I won't turn my back on what calls me by name.
The baker turns toward me. "And for you, what can I get today?"
I find my voice again, my eyes following the other woman. "A loaf of bread. The one that still sings, nice and warm."
The woman beside me hints at a smile — a beautiful one, like a bookmark slipped between two pages of your favorite book. I keep my hand steady.
But inside, the question shifts shape: I no longer ask 'why do I dream?' — I ask 'where does this scent lead?'
And I know that, whatever the answer is, today I won't run away — not for anything in the world.