---
We moved on to the pencil aisle.
Rows of 2B pencils sat neatly organized in boxes.
Yuna took a box of twelve.
Read the description.
"The wood is soft," she murmured.
"Are you planning to whittle them?"
"No."
She dropped it into the small shopping basket we’d picked up by the entrance.
---
Next, the eraser rack.
There were plain white erasers.
And there were ones shaped like little animals.
Cats. Pandas. Bears.
She stopped in front of a small, gray cat-shaped eraser.
Her eyes widened a fraction.
She picked one up.
Pressed it with her finger.
Squishy.
Turned it over.
Checked the price.
Silent.
---
"Functionally," she said quietly, "the white ones can erase just as well."
"True."
She grabbed a plain white eraser.
Dropped it into the basket.
The cat eraser was still in her hand.
She stared at it again.
Then, slowly, returned it to the shelf.
Her fingers lingered on it for a few seconds longer than necessary.
---
I grabbed two of the cat erasers and dropped them into the basket.
One landed softly against the pencil box.
Yuna froze.
"That’s not necessary," she said quickly.
"One is for function," I said.
I picked up the other one.
"And one is for diplomacy."
"Diplomacy with whom?"
"With yourself."
She stared at the eraser.
Then stared at .
"Papa is inconsistent."
"I am flexible."
She fell silent.
A few seconds later—
"In that case... one is enough."
"We already have two."
She tried to sound rational.
"Two is excessive."
"We might lose one."
She looked at the erasers again.
Then, very quietly—
"In that case... this one is to use. The other is to keep."
"Diplomacy successful."
The corner of her lips twitched.
Just a fraction.
It wasn’t a formal smile.
More like a tiny sense of satisfaction she was trying to hold back.
She took the basket and walked toward the notebook aisle.
Her steps were just a little lighter than before.
---
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