The next morning, the windowsill was empty.
There was no sign of parchment, no lingering scent of ink.
With a soft sigh, Seven leaned her elbows on the windowsill, her chin resting on her hand. She didn't know what she was expecting and why she felt sad about not finding a letter, tucked under the pot.
Disappointed, but refusing to linger on it too long, she went ahead with her day.
In the bakery, The oven were already warm. She baked a fresh batch of cookies and cakes, humming quietly to herself, trying to keep her mind from drifting back to the letters and her father. The day passed in errands and deliveries - vanilla buns to the tailor's shop, spice cookies to the Simon's, lemon cake to the innkeeper's youngest daughter.
By the time the afternoon sun hung low over the hills, she returned home, her hands slightly floury and her arms sore from carrying boxes.
"Seven!" her mother called from the kitchen. "Someone placed a large order - ten of your Ritual cakes. They need them by this evening!"
"Ten?" Seven echoed, blinking. "Who ordered them?"
"An old woman came in with a young man," her mother explained while wiping her hands. "It's the woman's birthday, apparently. She said she wanted the Ritual cake. She heard a lot about it from the younger daughter of the innkeeper. I guess now you know what she meant and need."
Seven smiled faintly and nodded. "I do."
"And she tasted some cookies too — liked them very much," her mother said, impressed by Seven's new recipes. She had tried them earlier herself, and honestly, Seven was getting really good at baking.
Without delay, Seven got to work, her fingers moving with familiarity and rhythm. Mixing bowls clinked, sugar and cinnamon danced into the batter, and the scent of baked joy slowly filled the house.
By the time evening arrived, the kitchen was a soft chaos of cooling racks, cream swirls, and boxed delights. Seven had just finished packing the last cake when the bell above the door chimed.
She wiped her hands on her apron and opened the door.
Standing there was a regal woman, her silver hair coiled in soft waves, draped in richly woven fabrics that shimmered slightly under the evening light. Beside her stood a young man—tall, broad-shouldered, with a clean-cut jaw and eyes the color of storm clouds.
The woman's smile was kind but knowing.
"Good evening," Seven greeted warmly, stepping aside to let them in. "You must be here for the order."
"Indeed," the woman replied, her voice melodic. "It smells like a celebration in here."
Seven's mother joined them, welcoming the guests with her usual grace. The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Bramlow, and the young man beside her was her grandson, Nelson Bramlow. As Seven boxed the cakes one by one, the older woman watched her work with a sort of quiet admiration.
"You've got hands that make magic," she said thoughtfully.
Seven chuckled, "That's the best compliment I've heard all day."
Once the cakes were stacked safely into the carriage with Nalson's help, Mrs. Bramlow turned back toward them.
"There's a small gathering tonight," she said, "at the inn near the well. I'd be honored if you both would join us. Consider it a thank-you."
Seven opened her mouth to decline politely, but her mother gently elbowed her.
"Oh, come on," Lira said. "We haven't been to a celebration in ages." Maybe her mother had sensed her dull mood.
With a small laugh, Seven agreed.
That evening, the inn was a warm blur of golden lights, music, and murmuring voices. Lanterns dangled from beams. The birthday hall buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of glasses.
Seven wore a soft emerald-green dress, simple but elegant. It brought out the gentle curves of her frame and made her eyes shimmer like moonlit moss. She looked… almost otherworldly.
Mrs. Bramlow welcomed them graciously, taking a moment to hold Seven's hands in hers.
"Thank you, truly," she said. "The cakes are more than just food. They're a memory I wanted to relive."
Seven smiled gently, touched by the woman's sentiment.
After some time, as the celebration carried on and the music swelled around her, Seven felt a strange tightness in her chest. The air felt a bit too heavy, the lights too bright.
Slipping out quietly, she walked toward the old well just beyond the inn, letting the cool air wrap around her like a shawl.
She stood there in silence, the distant sound of laughter washing over her.
"Didn't like the party?"
The voice came from behind—low, refined, laced with a slight hush. She turned.
There he was.
A man stood casually beneath the lantern's glow, his posture easy, but his presence commanding. His hazel eyes, catching the moonlight like molten gold, were deep and unreadable, the kind that could both burn and freeze. He was handsome in a way that made time hesitate, a face that didn't belong in a crowd.
Seven stared at him, too long.
He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Do I have something on my face? Or do I just look suspicious?"
She blinked, caught herself, and fumbled. "Oh, no, I was just.. umm…" She cleared her throat, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. "You are…"
"Handsome?" he finished for her, a teasing glint in his eye.
Her mouth parted, but she had no reply. She could only stare again.
He laughed, soft and smooth. "I know you didn't mean to say that. My apologies for causing such… distractions."
He stepped forward, extending a hand like a gentleman from another era.
"My name is Rukas. Rukas Carlov."
And just like that, the sender of those mysterious letters, the name she'd whispered at her window, now stood in front of her - in flesh, in voice, in breath.
Real.
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