The morning after the Ritual of Thanks dawned with the soft hush of mountain fog curling through the village's lanes.
The scent of tangy fruits and baked sugar hung in the air, as if the village itself hadn't quite woken from the sweet dreams of the night before.
In the heart of the village, the bakery flickered to life.
Inside, the warm orange glow from the ovens kissed the shelves lined with honeyed buns and fig tarts.
Seven stood at the back of the bakery, sleeves rolled to her elbows, cheeks dusted with flour. The new cupcake batter sat ready in its bowl, and she gave it a slow, thoughtful swirl.
The bell over the door jingled.
Not unusual—it had been ringing all day, chiming for every villager who needed a pie, a loaf, or a sweet to soften the end of a long day.
Seven wiped her hands on her apron and glanced around. Her mother was elbow-deep in dough at the back.
"Can you see who it is?" she called.
"Got it," Seven replied, brushing flour from her hands and heading to the front.
But the counter stood empty.
No one.
Only a folded piece of parchment lay there—cream-colored, edges crisp, her name written on it in dark, elegant ink: Seven. Just that. No address. No flourish. As if the sender knew she'd find it.
She pushed open the door and glanced outside—stone path, wind chimes, a dog lazily dozing on the porch across the square.
No shadow slipping away, no footsteps echoing down the street.
Strange.
She came back in, tucked the letter into the pocket of her apron, and returned to her cupcakes. The batter tasted good—not too sweet. She poured it into tins, humming quietly, the letter forgotten for the moment beneath the rhythm of routine.
By evening, the bakery smelled like a dream.
The last loaf was sold, the shelves wiped clean, and the golden light of dusk poured in through the bakery windows.
Her arms ached, her hair had frizzed into curls from the heat, and her apron was a map of her day's experiments.
As she unknotted it to change and bathe, the letter slipped free and fluttered to the floor.
She picked it up and carried it to her room, tossing it onto the bed.
Then headed for a warm, relaxing bath.
After washing away the tiredness and slipping into fresh, cozy clothes, she came down for dinner.
She ate, chatted a little with her mother, then finally returned to her room—curled up on the bed, holding the letter in both hands.
She wondered aloud who might have left it for her.
The parchment opened easily, but the words inside made her blink— quietly and curious.
> To the baker in the blue dress,
Your offering at the well was... memorable.
A cake as lovely as its maker—but, dare I say, just as dangerous. You stabbed me. With a toothpick.
I survived, barely. My pride, however, remains in critical condition.
The flavor was impeccable. Texture, divine. But perhaps next time, inspect your arsenal of ingredients for hidden weapons. Sharp surprises tend to deter repeat customers... unless, of course, they find mischief amusing.
I do.
In short: keep baking. Just... less lethally.
Yours in toothache and delight,
—A Tastefully Wounded Admirer
Seven stared at the letter for a long moment.
Then grinned.
And laughed—genuinely, softly, the kind of laugh that stayed in the chest for a while.
Something about the words felt alive. Clever. Playful. And oddly... interested.
She wondered if someone from the village had seen her at the well and decided to play a prank. Maybe one of the village boys. Or some lonely guest with too much time on their hands.
She didn't believe it—exactly. But she didn't disbelieve it either.
She liked the tone. The nerve. The mischief laced with meaning.
She folded the letter—not ready to toss it, but not quite sure what to do with it either.
After a moment's thought, she reached for a spool of wire, pierced a neat hole in the corner of the paper, and tied it carefully around the tiny pot of rosemary that sat on her windowsill.
There it hung—swaying softly in the mountain breeze.
Outside, the stars blinked like old secrets.
Inside, Seven drifted into dreams with a strange thrill in her chest.
Not fear. Not love. Not quite.
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