Leo woke up at five forty-five.
He hadn’t meant to.
His biological clock was still running on the time zone of another world—and even though his body had become three years younger, apparently his brain hadn’t received the update.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
He looked at the watch on the nightstand.
Its rings were still.
He stared at it for three seconds, then sighed and stood up.
He went downstairs quietly.
Not because he was trying not to wake anyone.
He had simply discovered over the past two days that the third step creaked if you stepped on it at a certain angle—and he avoided it automatically.
The kitchen was dark.
The street outside the window was gray.
It seemed Paris hadn’t woken up yet.
He found Tom there.
Standing in front of the oven, looking at him as though he were trying to decide whether his opinion of him had changed overnight.
He heard Leo’s footsteps and turned.
“You wake up early.”
“So do you.”
Tom laughed.
“I’m baking.
It’s my job.”
“I’m used to it.
It’s an old habit.”
Tom looked at him in a way that suggested he was adding information to a file that didn’t exist.
“Do you drink coffee?”
“If there’s some.”
Tom made the coffee.
Leo sat in the same chair he’d used yesterday.
He looked at the refrigerator.
Then the light.
Then the oven.
All of them worked.
Tsk…
I’m really great.
Lio praised himself internally.
He said nothing.
Sabine came down half an hour later.
She was carrying a bag of vegetables and wearing the expression of someone who had slept well and knew the day was going to be a good one.
She saw Lio sitting there and stopped.
“Leo!
You’re here.”
“This is where I live now.”
She smiled.
“I know.
But I’m used to being the first one awake.
Except for Tom.”
“Sorry for ruining the routine.”
“Don’t say that,” she said as she put the bag down.
“It’ll be nice having someone else in the kitchen early.
Tom doesn’t talk much in the morning.”
From behind her, Tom said, “Because there’s nothing worth talking about in the morning.”
Sabine looked at Lio in a way that clearly said: See?
Leo didn’t laugh.
But the corner of his mouth moved slightly.
The morning began.
And this time, Lio wasn’t just a guest sitting around.
There was an arrangement.
Tom explained it as he passed him carrying a tray.
“Today, you’re learning the basics.”
Leo looked at the tray.
“What basics?”
“The counter.
The customers.
How to smile without looking like you’re planning something.”
“I’m not planning anything.”
“I know,” Tom said with a smile.
“That’s why I said it.”
The first customer was a woman in her sixties.
She looked at Lio.
Then at Tom.
“Who’s this?”
“New assistant,” Tom said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The woman raised an eyebrow.
“Does he speak French?”
Tom looked at Leo.
Leo looked at the woman.
“Un peu,” he said.
“A little.”
His pronunciation was terrible.
But the woman smiled.
“Better than nothing, young man.”
Tom asked her to repeat her order slowly, and Lio listened with the concentration of someone analyzing a new linguistic pattern.
Her order: two loaves of bread, a croissant, and a piece of chocolate cake.
It took Lio seven seconds to translate it into terms in his head.
Then he said to Tom in English, “Two loaves, a croissant, chocolate cake.”
Tom nodded.
“Excellent.
Now tell her the price.”
Lio looked at the woman.
Then at Tom.
“You didn’t tell me the price.”
“Because I want you to calculate it.”
Leo looked at the items.
Then at the price board.
He calculated it in his head.
Then, in his broken French, he said, “Seven…
euros…
fifty?”
The woman smiled.
“Give him a tip, Tom.
That effort deserves it.”
The day went on like that.
One customer after another.
Tom explained.
Leo listened.
“Don’t just say ‘price,'” she told him after he’d said exactly that to one of the customers.
“Say ‘the price is…’ with a smile.”
“Why?”
“Because people buy from people who smile, not calculators.”
Leo looked at her.
“But the price doesn’t change.”
“True.
But how they feel about paying it does.”
Leo paused.
He thought about that.
Then said, “That doesn’t make sense.”
Sabine smiled.
“I know.
That’s marketing.”
Around noon, Marinette came downstairs.
She hadn’t left her room all morning.
She had been working on a new design—that was what she’d said over breakfast—and not a sound had come from upstairs for four hours.
When she appeared, her hair was down differently.
It took Lio a second to realize why, then he remembered that she usually tied it back.
He didn’t comment.
She was wearing a light blue shirt he’d never seen before.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
She saw Lio behind the counter.
Then looked at Tom.
Then Sabine.
Then back at Lio.
“…You’re standing behind the counter.”
“That is correct.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m helping.”
She looked at Tom.
Tom looked at her.
“An arrangement,” he said simply.
She looked at Sabine.
Sabine smiled.
She looked at Lio again.
“Do you know how to deal with customers?”
That was a yes-or-no question.
Leo answered, “I’m learning.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s an honest answer.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
Then she came behind the counter.
“Fine.
I’ll help you.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t trust you on your own.”
Leo looked at her.
She meant it literally.
And somehow, she was joking too.
He decided that this was a social complication that wasn’t worth analyzing right now.
“Fine,” he said.
“Help me.”
And she was actually useful.
Not just because she knew the prices and the names of everything.
But because she knew the customers.
“Madame Perrault likes compliments on her new coat.”
“Mr.
René hates talking about the weather, so don’t start with that.”
“The two children who come with their mother—one likes plain croissants, and the other likes the almond-filled ones.
But they sometimes switch them just to confuse us.”
Leo looked at her.
“How do you know all that?”
“Because I’ve lived here since I was born.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“It’s the only explanation I have.”
Tom laughed from behind them.
Leo heard him.
He said nothing.
In the afternoon, while the bakery was quiet, Lio found himself alone behind the counter.
Tom was in the back preparing a large order.
Sabine had gone out to buy some supplies.
Marinette had gone back upstairs after lunch—she said she wanted to finish the design before evening.
And Leo remained.
With the bakery.
With the customers.
With himself.
A young woman walked in.
She was pushing a small child’s stroller and staring at the bread menu like she was reading a philosophical text.
She looked at Leo.
“You don’t look like you’re from around here.
Do you speak French?”
“A little,” Lio said, and this time his pronunciation was slightly better.
“What would you like?”
“A loaf of brown bread, please.”
He looked at the shelves.
Found the loaf.
Wrapped it.
Handed it to her.
“How much?”
He looked at the price board.
Calculated.
“Two euros fifty.”
She smiled.
“Your French is terrible.”
“I’m practicing.”
“Well, keep at it.
Good luck.”
She left.
Lio remained there.
Feeling something strange.
It wasn’t pride.
It wasn’t satisfaction.
Something else.
Something that felt like…
belonging.
Another customer walked in.
A man in his thirties.
He looked at Leo.
“You seem new?”
“Yes.”
“In the back, preparing an order.”
The man nodded.
“Okay.
I’ll wait.”
But he didn’t.
He stood there looking at Lio.
Then said, “Where are you from?”
Leo paused.
A simple question.
But it carried a lot with it.
“From a distant country,” he said at last.
The man raised an eyebrow.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.”
The man looked at him.
Then laughed.
“You’re strange.”
“I know.”
“But Tom likes strange people.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
Leo said it with an almost-smile—not a full smile, just the slightest movement at the corner of his mouth.
The man laughed again.
Then took his loaf when Tom returned and left.
That evening, they all sat down for dinner together.
A simple bowl of soup, fresh bread, and some cheese.
Tom talked about tomorrow’s order.
Sabine smiled and added details.
Marinette ate quietly, but she glanced at Lio every now and then.
Then she suddenly asked, “How was your first day?”
Leo looked at her.
“How was it?”
He thought about the question.
Then said, “Strange.”
“Strange how?”
“People ask a lot of questions.”
Sabine laughed.
“That’s what most people do.”
“I know.
I’m just not used to all this.”
Marinette looked at him.
She was looking at him differently.
Not just with curiosity.
Something else.
As if she were trying to understand him.
Then she said, “You’ll get used to it.”
“You know what?” Lio said.
“I think I will.”
He went upstairs after dinner.
The watch was on the nightstand.
Still.
He sat in front of it.
He didn’t touch it.
He just looked at it.
Damn…
when will I be able to fix you?
Then he sighed.
The day had been ordinary.
And that wasn’t a bad thing.
There was a soft knock on the door.
“Leo?”
Marinette’s voice.
He got up.
Opened the door.
She was standing there, holding a cup of warm milk.
“I thought you might not sleep well,” she said.
“After your first day.”
He looked at the cup.
Then at her.
“I don’t usually sleep well.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean the milk won’t help.”
She held the cup out to him.
He took it.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She stood there for a second longer.
“Was the day difficult?”
Leo thought for a moment.
“No.”
“Then?”
He looked at the cup in his hand.
“Just…
different.”
Marinette smiled.
“Different how?”
He was silent for a moment.
“I was alone most of the time.”
She said nothing.
“Today, I wasn’t.”
Her smile widened slightly.
“Then it was a good day.”
Leo looked at her.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I don’t want to exaggerate.”
She laughed softly.
“Okay.
Maybe.”
Then she turned around.
“Good night, Leo.”
“Good night.”
He closed the door behind her.
He stood there for a moment, then looked at the cup of milk.
“I didn’t need this.”
He took a sip.
“…But it’s good.”
Then he said to himself, “One step at a time.”
Tsk…
I might get tired of that phrase eventually, Lio mocked himself internally.
He set the cup aside.
Then went to sleep.
End of Chapter Twelve