Moe folded the 10,000 yen note with the care of a devotee and nestled it in the deepest pocket of her wallet—a talisman, no longer mere currency, but a fragile relic of “fatherly love.” The note’s weight was more spirit than substance; whenever her fingers grazed its crisp thickness, she felt an invisible hand on her shoulder, a silent guardian in the frozen city gloom. To spend it would be to break a spell, and Moe was afraid that once spent, the warmth—borrowed, not earned—would evaporate forever.

In her shoebox apartment, Moe unfurled the notebooks belonging to Professor Shigemitsu’s daughter, Sayaka. The pages breathed with languid, looping handwriting, each curve and dot brimming with an innocence Moe could only study from afar. She traced every sentence, searching for the secret tempo of Sayaka’s world—a world where annual journeys to Tuscany, Paris, London were not dreams but traditions, and where sun, rain, and mist were souvenirs rather than fantasies. Outside, Adachi Ward simmered with a sullen, cloud-choked sky. Moe watched its leaden expanse, envy seeping into her marrow: some doors open not with effort, but with birthright.

One page was a riot of yellow ducks, plump and round, drawn with a child’s abandon. Sayaka had confessed a fondness for collecting Little Yellow Duck trinkets, claiming their soft, silly shapes made her believe in the world’s kindness.

“Little Yellow Duck…” Moe whispered, feeling something brittle stir inside her. She longed for such innocence, knowing it had never truly belonged to her.

In Moe’s childhood, “toys” were currency traded for grades. Her mother’s voice, cold and precise, echoed across the years: “Only the top ten deserve gifts.” Moe was always just shy of that bar, her older sister’s shadow stretching long and unbroken. At night, Moe played “house” in secret, hands trembling as she arranged cast-off plastic bowls and spoons in the wardrobe’s darkness. Once caught, shame had burned her cheeks, and the memory clung like a shroud.

“How did you learn to steal?” her mother had hissed, each word a pinprick. “You’d rather take than strive?” Her grandmother’s sigh was a winter wind: “Uncle was right. Moe is vain, just like her father.”

To this day, Moe could not fathom how a fleeting game became a verdict on her soul. But she clung to the hope that, someday, she might achieve something dazzling enough to buy back the love reserved for her sister.

Lost in these thoughts, Moe drifted into a gleaming department store, bypassing perfume and handbags for the quiet shrine of the stationery floor. She bought a “Little Yellow Duck Highlighter Set”—a foolish luxury, and yet, as she clutched the bright plastic, a childish joy fluttered in her chest. For a moment, she too could be like Sayaka: a girl sheltered by adults, permitted an innocent whim.

The next three days vanished in a blur of labor. Moe wrote, ghosting Sayaka’s voice, her own hope burning at the edges of every sentence. If this “Personal Statement” could pry open the gates of an Italian university, the Professor’s promised introduction might become her passport. She pictured herself at last a university student, her future no longer marked by the small humiliations of part-time jobs, but lifted by a hard-won degree.

It was her last, best gamble for escape.

On handover day, Moe entered the café buoyed by cautious excitement. She laid the manuscript before Professor Shigemitsu, her smile bright and unguarded.

“Professor, I modeled this on Sayaka’s style. Please have a look.”

She reached into her case for a highlighter. The Little Yellow Duck set tumbled out, scattering across the table, one pen rolling to rest against the Professor’s coffee cup. His face froze; the warmth in his eyes iced over.

He did not touch the pens. His voice turned frigid. “Moe, what is the meaning of this?”

Moe’s smile faltered. “I thought they were cute—like Sayaka’s notebooks…”

“You misunderstand,” the Professor cut in, his words soft but sharp as a knife. “I’ve seen your real handwriting—plain black pens, frugal and fitting. That simplicity suits your station. I asked you to mimic Sayaka’s writing, not her life.”

Moe’s heart thudded, stunned into silence.

“Parents shield their children so innocence can flourish. Sayaka’s ducklings are possible because we built her a greenhouse. But you, Moe—you’re clever, industrious, from a good school. Your place is to finish this work. Everyone has a boundary. To cross it is a kind of theft. True refinement is knowing your place.”

Moe stood motionless, her eyes burning. She didn’t understand why the Professor reacted with such vehemence—why his gaze, cold and wounded, was the same as her mother’s and grandmother’s when they’d found her playing with forbidden toys.

Did grown-ups really believe that even the right to like something cute was reserved for the fortunate?

Under the Professor’s withering stare, Moe felt her borrowed warmth and innocence crumble—plastic fragments on a café table. She had hoped words could build a bridge, but the wall called “class” had never let her cross, not even a single step.