Seven woke to the chill of the morning air, the kind of cold that made her shiver and pull the blanket tighter around herself. She groggily opened her eyes and blinked, frowning when she realized the source of the cold, the window was open.
She was sure she had closed it the night before, after carefully hanging the letter by the pot.
Confused, she pushed herself up from the bed, her feet landing softly on the wooden floor, and moved toward the window. She was about to shut it when something caught her eye, a folded piece of parchment, tucked neatly under the rosemary pot. The wind had been trying to pull it away, but it was secure enough to be noticed.
Curious, she reached for the letter. Her fingers brushed the edge of the paper, and she felt the weight of it in her hand. Another letter. The same size, the same crisp, cream-colored paper. She stepped back into her room, the morning light spilling across the floor, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
This time, the sender's words were slightly different. More direct. More... playful.
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To the Sweet Baker,
I see my first letter ended up hanging outside your window like forgotten laundry. Charming. I must admit, I was touched—touched in the way one might be by a cold breeze at dawn.
But, of course, I understand your caution. A stranger leaving mysterious letters at your window might appear suspicious. Especially one who speaks of your cake with far too much enthusiasm.
I won't say I'm hurt, but I had hoped my words would find a warmer reception. And yes, I'd love another bite of that cake—without the toothpick this time, of course. A simple request, surely?
I'll leave it to you, then, to decide how to respond to my humble confessions.
Yours in cold drafts and crumbs,
—The Still-Wounded Admirer
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Seven blinked at the letter for a long moment, her brow furrowing. She couldn't help but smile at the sender's audacity. Who was this person, and why were they so... bold?
She had to admit, there was something about the tone. The sarcasm, the playful hint of mischief, it made her laugh. It was unexpected, and she liked that. Still, she wasn't going to let herself be too intrigued. She folded the letter and placed it under her pillow, then went ahead with her day's duties. The morning tasks were already waiting. Flour needed to be sifted, dough needed to be kneaded.
Her thoughts lingered on the letter, though, as she worked through the routine of the day. Who could it be? Someone from the village? Maybe one of the boys who had been at the festival that night, bored and looking for a bit of amusement?
By evening, the soft jingle of the bakery bell echoed through the warm air, pulling Seven from her focus as she kneaded dough in the kitchen.
From beyond the kitchen doorway, her mother's musical laughter drifted in, filling the space with a strange kind of warmth.
Seven smiled unconsciously at the sound.
It wasn't often her mother laughed like that.
Lira Bennett, her mother, was not a woman given to idleness. She treated work like a sacred duty; every moment had to be spent doing something useful. Laziness, in her eyes, was a crime.
Even now, Seven could picture her bustling behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron, that no-nonsense gleam in her eye softened only by genuine warmth for the customers.
Ever since her grandparents had passed, the walls of their home felt a little emptier, a little quieter.
Seven had never known her father.
She hadn't dared to ask much, either.
As a little girl, curious and innocent, she had once run to her grandfather, tugging his sleeve, asking about the man she had never seen.
Her grandfather's face, usually so full of stories and smiles, had darkened.
"He's no more," he said simply.
When she pressed for more — how, why, where? he only patted her head and changed the subject.
As she grew older, Seven learned to read the silences better than the words.
And she understood, without needing to be told, that some griefs were too deep to be dragged into the light.
She stopped asking after that.
After all, what did it matter? Her mother loved her — fiercely, endlessly, enough to make up for any missing piece. And Seven loved her back just the same.
Another ripple of laughter floated in from the front of the bakery, chasing away the lingering shadows in Seven's heart. She blinked back to the present.
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