CHAPTER 280: SUGAR AND CRUMBS

‎The scent of vanilla and toasted sugar hung heavy and sweet in the air, a comforting blanket wrapped around me 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 became magic, and my worries, for a few precious hours, melted away. Today, it was a vanilla bean chiffon cake, its delicate structure promising a light, airy bite.

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‎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.

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‎I hummed softly, a familiar tune lost to myself, as I divided the batter into perfectly proportioned rounds.

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‎It was a simple, beautiful process. Kneading dough, decorating cupcakes, the rhythmic whisking of meringue – these were the anchors in my life.

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‎The rest of my life didn’t feel that way lately.

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‎They told me I’d had an accident. That I hit my head and slept for a long time.

‎That I was lucky.

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‎I don’t remember any of it.

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‎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 someone else’s life. My dad said it was a "controlled recovery facility." The doctor — Dr. Kassel, she’d said with the kindest smile — told me it was normal to feel disoriented, that I only lost a little bit of memory. "Tiny gap," she’d said, like I’d misplaced my car keys.

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‎But sometimes I think that "tiny gap" is a lie. They even got me a different phone because I lost mine in the accident. And the tiny beautiful fluffy dog that dad said he rescued greeted me like it has always known of me and she even clunged to me the most. Although I feel so much love for that I even asked Dad if he could let her sleep in my room.

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‎I measured 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 meticulously built. The scent of genuine vanilla bean, rich and earthy, wafted up, momentarily grounding me, as I tried not to think too much of it.

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‎Because when I do, my head starts to buzz — a low, painful static that hums behind my right temple.

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‎Like right now.

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‎I frowned, pressing my fingers against it. "Cain?... No, that’s not it."

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‎The name had been stuck in my head all morning. I was sure Aria said it that day — the day I woke up.

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‎"Crab?" I murmured. Who even bears the name crab? "Or was it... Caleb? Fedinard? Gilbert? Justice?" I groaned under my breath. "Ugh, I don’t even know."

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‎Something else too — another name. Softer. The way Aria said it had sounded... heavy. Sad.

‎Ad... Antoine? Alberto? Adam? Aden? No, it wasn’t those. It was a name that felt like a sigh, a gentle falling of leaves.

‎The thought came and slipped away before I could grab it.

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‎And before her — before that doctor came in — I remember Aria saying something. Something that made my chest feel hollow when I tried to recall it now.

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‎I set the spoon down, my hands suddenly still.

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‎What was it?

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‎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—

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‎I shook the thought off. "Don’t," I muttered to myself. "Dr. Kassel said not to push."

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‎Still, curiosity buzzed through the numbness. I couldn’t stop wondering what she’d meant when she told me to "let it come naturally."

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‎Because if this was natural, why did it feel like there was a hole inside my life big enough to swallow me whole?

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‎"Isabella!!! You are burning something again!" The scolding voice of my boss rang out.

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‎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 something forgotten, something scorching. Oh damn.

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‎"No, Pedro, I’m... I’m not," I stammered, my voice a little too high. I glanced around the immaculate bakery, the warm glow of the ovens reflecting in his dark eyes. Nothing seemed amiss.

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‎He sighed, a gust of air that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand burnt pastries. "Isabella, the oven timer 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.

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‎My heart sank. I’d been so lost in my thoughts, in the phantom names 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 smell 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.

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‎"Oh," I breathed, a flush rising to my cheeks. "I... I must have spaced out."

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‎Pedro’s expression softened slightly, though the weariness remained etched around his eyes. He’d been with me since the beginning, or at least, since I could remember. He’d been there when I returned from the hospital like as if he was shocked to see me 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 times.

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‎"Spaced out is an understatement, 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 smell... well, that’s just old caramel from last week’s batch finally giving up its ghost." He winked, trying to lighten the mood.

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‎I managed a weak smile. "Sorry, Pedro. My head’s been... elsewhere."

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‎He nodded, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment, a silent question in his eyes. He’d been patient, incredibly so, but I could see the concern he tried to hide.

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‎"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?"

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‎I nodded gratefully. "Yes, please. An espresso would be wonderful."

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‎"And you. Where were you? Why didn’t you tell her it was burning?" Pedro said, scolding my coworker who came back in.

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‎"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."

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‎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 me, then sighed again, deeper this time. "—distracted."

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‎Mateo, unbothered, grinned as he tied his apron back on. "Relax, abuelo. The cake is only slightly charred. We’ll tell the customer it’s a new flavor—smoky caramel." He nudged me with his elbow. "Or we blame it on the ghosts. This building is 200 years old."

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‎Pedro pinched the bridge of his nose. "Saints preserve me."

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‎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 me. "I’ll remake it," I said, wiping my hands on my flour-dusted apron. "Extra attention this time."

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‎Pedro softened. "Good. And drink that espresso before your hands shake any more." He nudged the tiny cup toward me, the rich scent cutting through the lingering smoke.

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‎As I took a sip, Mateo leaned in, his voice low. "So. Where were you?" His tone was light, but his eyes were searching.

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‎I hesitated. "Just... lost in my head," I murmured.

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‎Mateo studied me, then shrugged. "Well, come back. We’ve got dulce de leche croissants to frost, and Pedro will lecture us into an early grave if we burn those too."

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‎Pedro, eavesdropping, scoffed. "Try me."

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‎Laughter bubbled up despite everything. The oven timer beeped—Mateo had already reloaded it with a fresh batch—and the kitchen hummed back to life.