The sixth Monday began the same… yet somehow different.
Ayan sensed it the moment he opened his door that morning—the scent in the air had changed slightly. It was sweeter than usual, a gentle blend of honey and green tea carried in by the breeze. He looked down at the spot where the lunchbox was always left. But this time, it wasn't the same kind of box he'd come to expect.
It was smaller, wrapped in a handkerchief with a soft floral print. When he opened it, inside was a delicate matcha pudding served in a small glass cup, accompanied by a tiny spoon and a note resting neatly on top.
> "A sweet for Monday :) I'm not sure if it'll suit your taste, but I hope it makes your day a little better."
Ayan stood silently for a moment, staring at the handwriting that seemed to float before his eyes, seeping quietly into his heart. A warm feeling began to spread in his chest.
He picked up the spoon and tasted the first bite.
The subtle sweetness of the matcha wasn't overpowering. It was cool, smooth, with a light aroma of milk woven into the soft, silky texture of the pudding. Not sugary or intense—just a quiet kind of warmth, like being held gently from the inside.
He ate in silence, slowly, one spoonful after another, not realizing he was smiling softly to himself until the dessert was gone and the note still rested gently in his hand.
Inside, a voice whispered softly—he wanted to know the person who made this sweet… just a little more.
After placing the cleaned box from the previous week in front of his neighbor's door, Ayan returned to his room. He took out his small sketchbook—where he often captured fragments of his dreams—and sat down near the window on the wooden floor. He drew a quiet little bookstore with a reading nook and a small tray of sweets placed on a round table beside a single chair.
Beneath the drawing, with slightly trembling handwriting, he wrote:
> "If there were a bookstore that served pudding like this… I don't think customers would ever want to leave."
He folded the paper gently and tucked it inside the clean, empty box from today. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he picked up his pen and added a few more words at the bottom:
> "Thank you for your care. I can tell—you put more into it than the word 'delicious' could ever express :)"
He placed the box in front of the next room, just like always.
---
The next Monday, there was another box waiting for him.
This time, it was red bean mochi dusted lightly with kinako. The sweet aroma of the dessert blended seamlessly with the familiar scent of coffee that drifted from the room next door.
The note inside was longer than usual.
> "I'm so glad you liked it :) This mochi is from a recipe I tried back in high school. I entered it in a baking contest and got eliminated in the first round because the judges said the flavor was too weak. But my mom said it was soft and comforting… so I kept making it."
"Sometimes I wonder why we need something to 'win' or 'meet a standard' before we believe it's good enough."
Ayan read the note over and over again.
And in the end, he wrote back:
> "I don't know who the judges were, but I know your dessert passes my standard of feeling-good Mondays every time."
"Your mom clearly has great taste :)"
---
That evening, Ayan noticed the light in the next room stayed on later than usual.
It didn't turn off right after sunset like it normally did. The cream-colored curtains remained slightly open, and he caught a glimpse of a figure standing by the window, quietly placing something into a potted plant.
The movements were gentle and unhurried—the kind of motions that belonged to someone who lived simply, but with attention in every detail.
Ayan stood quietly by his own window, watching that faint silhouette reflected across the space between them, as if their two worlds were beginning to overlap—without ever stepping into each other's lives directly.
Perhaps the silence between him and his neighbor… wasn't a wall.
But a small bridge, slowly built with intention.
And next Monday… he was ready to cross that bridge again—without hesitation.