The scent of vanilla and toasted sugar hung heavy and sweet in the air, a comforting blanket wrapped around like my own apron. My fingers, dusted with flour, moved with practiced ease, creaming butter and sugar into a pale, fluffy cloud. This was my sanctuary, the warm heart of "Sugar and Crumbs" where the mundane beca magic, and my worries, for a few precious hours, lted away. Today, it was a vanilla bean chiffon cake, its delicate structure promising a light, airy bite.
The eggs, one by one, joined the creamy mixture, their yolks lending a richer hue, each swirl of the whisk incorporating them until the batter was smooth and glossy, a pale yellow river flowing in the bowl.
I humd softly, a familiar tune lost to myself, as I divided the batter into perfectly proportioned rounds.
It was a simple, beautiful process. Kneading dough, decorating cupcakes, the rhythmic whisking of ringue – these were the anchors in my life.
The rest of my life didn’t feel that way lately.
They told I’d had an accident. That I hit my head and slept for a long ti.
That I was lucky.
I don’t rember any of it.
When I woke up in that strange, beautiful and obviously very expensive room — with wires attached to my arm and my best friend sobbing into my shoulder — it felt like a scene from soone else’s life. My dad said it was a "controlled recovery facility." The doctor — Dr. Kassel, she’d said with the kindest smile — told it was normal to feel disoriented, that I only lost a little bit of mory. "Tiny gap," she’d said, like I’d misplaced my car keys.
But sotis I think that "tiny gap" is a lie. They even got a different phone because I lost mine in the accident. And the tiny beautiful fluffy dog that dad said he rescued greeted like it has always known of and she even clunged to the most. Although I feel so much love for that I even asked Dad if he could let her sleep in my room.
I asured the remainder of the flour and baking powder, sifting them gently over the wet ingredients, folding everything together with slow, deliberate strokes. I had to be careful not to deflate the fluffy structure I had so ticulously built. The scent of genuine vanilla bean, rich and earthy, wafted up, montarily grounding , as I tried not to think too much of it.
Because when I do, my head starts to buzz — a low, painful static that hums behind my right temple.
Like right now.
I frowned, pressing my fingers against it. "Cain?... No, that’s not it."
The na had been stuck in my head all morning. I was sure Aria said it that day — the day I woke up.
"Crab?" I murmured. Who even bears the na crab? "Or was it... Caleb? Fedinard? Gilbert? Justice?" I groaned under my breath. "Ugh, I don’t even know."
Sothing else too — another na. Softer. The way Aria said it had sounded... heavy. Sad.
Ad... Antoine? Alberto? Adam? Aden? No, it wasn’t those. It was a na that felt like a sigh, a gentle falling of leaves.
The thought ca and slipped away before I could grab it.
And before her — before that doctor ca in — I rember Aria saying sothing. Sothing that made my chest feel hollow when I tried to recall it now.
I set the spoon down, my hands suddenly still.
What was it?
It was right there — her voice shaking, the word "lost" buried in her tone. And then the sharp ringing in my head, her crying, my dad yelling for help—
I shook the thought off. "Don’t," I muttered to myself. "Dr. Kassel said not to push."
Still, curiosity buzzed through the numbness. I couldn’t stop wondering what she’d ant when she told to "let it co naturally."
Because if this was natural, why did it feel like there was a hole inside my life big enough to swallow whole?
"Isabella!!! You are burning sothing again!" The scolding voice of my boss rang out.
I flinched, jolting as if I’d been physically struck. The delicate batter sat untouched in the bowl, the airy structure I’d so carefully built now threatened by the sudden shock. My gaze snapped to the doorway, where Pedro, his brow furrowed in that familiar, exasperated way, stood with his hands on his hips. The comforting scent of vanilla was suddenly overlaid with the acrid tang of sothing forgotten, sothing scorching. Oh damn.
"No, Pedro, I’m... I’m not," I stamred, my voice a little too high. I glanced around the immaculate bakery, the warm glow of the ovens reflecting in his dark eyes. Nothing seed amiss.
He sighed, a gust of air that seed to carry the weight of a thousand burnt pastries. "Isabella, the oven tir went off five minutes ago. And there’s a distinctly smoky aroma coming from... well, from everywhere." He gestured vaguely, his eyes scanning the spotless counters.
My heart sank. I’d been so lost in my thoughts, in the phantom nas and the hollow ache, that I’d completely forgotten about the chiffon cake. I rushed to the ovens, pulling open the door with a clatter. A wisp of dark smoke curled out, carrying with it the faint, heartbreaking sll of overcooked sugar. The top of the cake was a deep, ugly brown, a stark contrast to the pale, golden perfection I’d envisioned. A smudge of burnt sugar had indeed dripped onto the oven floor, and a thin trail of smoke was now rising from it.
"Oh," I breathed, a flush rising to my cheeks. "I... I must have spaced out."
Pedro’s expression softened slightly, though the weariness remained etched around his eyes. He’d been with since the beginning, or at least, since I could rember. He’d been there when I returned from the hospital like as if he was shocked to see when I had been here yesterday. He’d also seen the confusion, the blank stares, the occasional flicker of frustration when I couldn’t recall a recipe I’d made a thousand tis.
"Spaced out is an understatent, bella," he said, his voice gentler now. He walked over, picking up the bowl of batter. "This one is still good. You caught yourself before it was too late." He gave it a gentle swirl. "And the sll... well, that’s just old caral from last week’s batch finally giving up its ghost." He winked, trying to lighten the mood.
I managed a weak smile. "Sorry, Pedro. My head’s been... elsewhere."
He nodded, his gaze lingering on my face for a mont, a silent question in his eyes. He’d been patient, incredibly so, but I could see the concern he tried to hide.
"It happens," he said, setting down the bowl. "Just try to stay present, okay? This cake needs you to be here, now." He pointed to the oven. "Let’s get this one out, and then we’ll start again. Fresh batch. And maybe," he added, a playful glint in his eye, "a nice, strong espresso for you?"
I nodded gratefully. "Yes, please. An espresso would be wonderful."
"And you. Where were you? Why didn’t you tell her it was burning?" Pedro said, scolding my coworker who ca back in.
"Aii, I went to use the restroom, papa Pedro. At least she hasn’t burned this place down. Stop worrying yourself, it is bad for your health."
Pedro huffed, giving my coworker, Mateo, a look that could wither fresh herbs. "You pick now to vanish? When the Chantilly order is due in an hour and our head baker is—" He cut himself off, glancing at , then sighed again, deeper this ti. "—distracted."
Mateo, unbothered, grinned as he tied his apron back on. "Relax, abuelo. The cake is only slightly charred. We’ll tell the custor it’s a new flavor—smoky caral." He nudged with his elbow. "Or we bla it on the ghosts. This building is 200 years old."
Pedro pinched the bridge of his nose. "Saints preserve ."
I bit my lip, watching as Mateo nonchalantly grabbed the ruined cake with a spatula and scraped it into the bin. His easy humor was a lifeline, but guilt still gnawed at . "I’ll remake it," I said, wiping my hands on my flour-dusted apron. "Extra attention this ti."
Pedro softened. "Good. And drink that espresso before your hands shake any more." He nudged the tiny cup toward , the rich scent cutting through the lingering smoke.
As I took a sip, Mateo leaned in, his voice low. "So. Where were you?" His tone was light, but his eyes were searching.
I hesitated. "Just... lost in my head," I murmured.
Mateo studied , then shrugged. "Well, co back. We’ve got dulce de leche croissants to frost, and Pedro will lecture us into an early grave if we burn those too."
Pedro, eavesdropping, scoffed. "Try ."
Laughter bubbled up despite everything. The oven tir beeped—Mateo had already reloaded it with a fresh batch—and the kitchen humd back to life.
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