Seraphina
The wooden bowl rested against my hip as I stirred, the old beechwood warm from years of hands doing exactly this.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Scrape.
The spoon dragged through butter and brown sugar until the crystals disappeared one by one, surrendering beneath the weight of the mixing.
Baking has always been strange to me. You throw a collection of completely useless things into a bowl and somehow, they become comfort.
Humans are a bit like that too. Flour. Eggs.
Sugar. Trauma. Give it enough heat and everyone comes out differently.
The kitchen slowly filled with the smell of vanilla, melted butter and toasted walnuts. It smelled... safe.
I liked safe.
"You're committing a crime against baking,"
Gerald announced from the flour tin, peering into my mixing bowl as though he were conducting a homicide investigation.
"You scooped the flour directly from the bag."
I blinked.
"...Yes."
"You compacted it."
"I compacted it?"
"The density is now completely wrong."
Frank sighed dramatically from the windowsill, where he'd made himself comfortable beside the herb pots.
"Oh, not this again."
Gerald ignored him.
"You should've spooned it into the measuring cup and levelled it with a butter knife."
Frank looked at me.
"He's been watching baking shows again."
"They're educational."
"They're propaganda."
"They're recipes."
"They're propaganda disguised as recipes."
I smiled despite myself.
"You two know you're made of clay, right?"
"We're cultured," Gerald corrected.
"You're dusty."
"We're collectible."
"You're garden ornaments."
Gerald looked personally offended.
"I have standards."
"You live next to compost."
"I choose to."
I laughed quietly, cracking the second egg into the bowl. The yellow yolk disappeared beneath the butter with a wet swirl. I folded the flour in slowly. The dough came together exactly the way I liked it. Soft. Heavy. Just sticky enough to cling to the spoon before finally letting go.
"They're for Elias," I said almost absentmindedly.
Silence. Absolute silence. Even the kettle seemed to stop hissing. Gerald turned toward me with the slow horror of a man witnessing a public execution.
"No."
Frank frowned.
"Absolutely not."
"He doesn't deserve cookies."
"He looks like he'd complain about cookies."
"He probably eats dry toast voluntarily."
"He definitely drinks black coffee because happiness scares him."
I reached for the chocolate chips. The big ones. The expensive ones. The ones that melt into little puddles.
Gerald gasped.
"The premium chocolate?"
"He'll appreciate it."
"He won't."
"He absolutely won't."
"He'll probably nod once."
"And say 'Thanks.'"
"Maybe."
"You are wasting perfectly respectable chocolate."
I smiled as I folded another handful into the dough.
"Maybe but I don't think cookies are about whether someone deserves them."
I paused, watching one stubborn chocolate chip refuse to disappear beneath the dough.
"I think they're about hoping they smile after the first bite."
Neither Gerald nor Frank had an answer for that.
For once...The kitchen was quiet except for the soft scrape of the spoon and the steady beat of my heart.
While the oven hummed its steady, dry little tune in the kitchen, I wandered down the narrow hallway toward my bedroom.
The cottage grew cooler away from the stove, carrying the soft scent of dried rose that drifted from the wardrobe.
I pulled the heavy oak doors open. The white linen dress was hanging exactly where I'd left it. Simple, clean, no lace, no embroidery, nothing that demanded attention. Just soft ivory linen that caught the afternoon light and made it look warmer than it really was.
I slipped it off the hanger, letting the cool fabric slide over my arms. I chose this one because of Tuesday.
We'd been standing in his kitchen while he worked through a stack of reports. The old pendulum clock had been ticking between us, filling the silence one second at a time. When he'd finally looked up, his eyes had stopped on the dress.
Not my face. Not my hair. The dress. Three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough for me to notice. Long enough for him to look away first.
I smiled to myself.
Small victories are still victories.
I knelt beside the wardrobe and slid open the cedar-lined drawer beneath it. The little leather wallet waited exactly where I'd hidden it.
One...
Two...
I eased the glossy photographs free, careful not to bend the corners, before standing and slipping behind the wardrobe door. The corkboard waited for me. Patiently.
You’re probably imagining walls covered in newspaper clippings connected by red string. Crazy handwriting. Thumbtacks everywhere. The sort of thing detectives discover halfway through a horror movie before saying, "Jesus Christ..."
Mine wasn't like that. Mine was neat. Everything had a place.
Straight lines. Equal spacing. Breathing room between each memory.
A faded coffee sleeve from the café. The receipt from the hardware store.
A pressed birch leaf that had landed on his truck one windy afternoon.
A folded county map I'd quietly borrowed while everyone at the sheriff's station had been too busy answering ringing phones to notice.
And now...
Two new photographs. I pinned the first one beside the map. Then the second. My fingertip rested on the edge of the photograph showing the sharp angle of his jaw and the tiny pale scar beneath his left eye.
Something felt...
Off.
I frowned. The pin sat just a little crooked. Barely noticeable. I nudged it. Just a fraction. Perfect. There. Better.
You probably think this is strange. I don't. People keep little things from the people they like all the time. Movie tickets. Pressed flowers. Concert wristbands. Receipts. Photos. Mine just happen to be organized. Strange would've been taking his toothbrush while he was at work.
I didn't.
Yet.
People think obsession is like fireworks.
With screaming. With someone losing their mind overnight.
It doesn't. It’s about remembering. Then noticing.
Then looking a little longer than everyone else.
One photograph becomes two. Two become five.
You remember what time they leave for work.
Which coffee mug they reach for first. The way they rub the bridge of their nose when they're tired.
Then, somewhere along the way… You realize you could draw their smile from memory...
but you'd have to look in the mirror to draw your own.
The timer above the stove gave a sharp, mechanical ping, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I hurried to the oven, slipping the thick oven mitt over one hand before pulling the cast-iron tray onto the wooden counter.
Warm air rushed into my face. Butter. Vanilla.
Brown sugar. The bittersweet smell of melted chocolate.
The cookies were perfect. Golden around the edges.
Soft in the middle. The oversized chocolate chunks still bubbled lazily in tiny molten pools, threatening to spill over the cracked tops.
"See?" I whispered.
"I didn't ruin them."
Gerald climbed onto the edge of the counter, squinting at the tray like a disappointed judge.
"They're slightly uneven."
"They're cookies," Frank sighed.
"They're circles."
"They're supposed to be circles."
"They're emotionally circular."
"I don't even know what that means."
"Neither do I."
I laughed quietly as I transferred six of them onto a cooling rack.
Not seven. Not five. Six. Enough to share.
Enough to pretend they weren't made for one person.
Once they'd cooled just enough to stop steaming, I lifted them carefully into a clean white bakery box I'd bought a week ago... just in case.
I never admitted that part out loud. I folded the lid closed before reaching for the spool of dark green ribbon tucked inside the kitchen drawer.
Around once. Twice. Pull. Loop. Tie. I frowned.
The bow leaned slightly to the left. I untied it.
Again loop, pull. Better. I trimmed one ribbon tail. Then the other. They had to match.
Perfect.
People notice those things. Or maybe they don't. I do. I was just smoothing my thumb over the ribbon. When I felt it . He was close. The low, familiar growl of a diesel engine working its way up the gravel road.
My heart skipped. Then started again much too fast. The truck rolled closer, tires crunching over loose stone before slowing outside the neighbouring cottage. The engine idled for only a second.
BANG.
The heavy truck door slammed shut. The sound echoed between the birch trees before disappearing into the valley. Heat rushed into my cheeks. Without thinking, I glanced down at the white dress, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the linen with both hands.
Did flour get on it? No. Chocolate? No. I tucked one loose strand of hair behind my ear. Then another. I wasn't nervous. I just...
I wanted to look nice.
"Seraphina."
Frank's voice was unusually quiet. I looked toward the windowsill. He wasn't frowning anymore. He looked… Concerned.
"Maybe don't."
Gerald nodded once beside him. No jokes. No complaints about ribbon symmetry. Just...
"Stay home."
"The mountain feels wrong, today."
I looked toward the front door. Toward the little cottage hidden through the trees. Toward him. The warm bakery box rested lightly in my hands. He'd smiled yesterday. Maybe today he'd smile again. Maybe he'd even eat one while it was still warm.
Maybe...
"I'll only be a minute," I said softly.
Neither of them answered. That should've worried me more than it did. I picked up the box, wrapped my fingers carefully around the ribbon, and stepped out into the cool violet evening, already smiling before I reached the porch steps.
Because hope...
Hope always walks a little faster than wisdom.