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Tomioka Giyuu owns a small café tucked into a secluded corner of the city, the kind of place people only find by accident. Every morning begins the same: he unlocks the door, wipes down already-clean tables, and waits.
And every day, without fail, Shinobu walks in at exactly 9:17.
At first, he thought it was a coincidence. Then it turned out to be something else entirely, when he noticed that no matter what he changed – menu, music, lighting – everything reset the moment she left without smiling. The clock rewinds, and the coffee cools back into untouched stillness, as if the world itself refuses to continue.
He doesn’t remember how many times it’s happened anymore. Only that he’s tried everything, from awkward jokes that fall flat to desserts perfected over dozens of repeated afternoons. None of it works, not really. She always smiles politely, thanks him, and leaves.
And the day dies with her.
Eventually, he stops trying to perform. There’s a loop (he doesn’t know which number anymore) where he simply sits across from her, hands wrapped around a cup he doesn’t drink from, and speaks without rehearsing it first.
“I think… I’ve been trying to earn something,” he says. “But I don’t actually know what you want.”
Shinobu tilts her head, watching him. He exhales.
“I don’t know how many times we’ve met. I don’t know how many versions of me you’ve seen. But I’d like to be the last one.” His fingers tighten slightly around the cup. “So… if there’s a version of this where you stay, where tomorrow happens, could you choose it?”
For the first time, her smile isn’t polite; it’s soft, almost fragile.
“I was wondering how long it would take you,” she says under her breath, more to herself than to him. “To stop trying to impress me, and just… ask me to stay.”
The sunlight doesn’t flicker, and the clock doesn’t rewind like it always does. For once, the day keeps going.