CHAPTER 281: SUGAR AND CRUMB(II)

The rest of the day passed in a gentle rhythm — sugar, laughter, and the soft thrum of café chatter bleeding in from the front room. The scent of warm vanilla and fresh espresso clung to my hair, my skin, even my sleeves. Mateo sang terribly to the radio while one of our colleagues—peace— muttered about ruined classics, and I caught myself smiling so much my cheeks ached.

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‎By afternoon, the bakery had settled into its usual lull. I stood by the front window, piping clouds of cream onto a row of lemon cupcakes, sunlight spilling across the counter in golden ribbons. Outside, children ran past holding ice cream cones, and an old couple shared a milkshake like a secret.

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‎It was... nice. Simple. The kind of day I hadn’t known I missed until I had it again.

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‎Pedro who I hadn’t noticed had been watching me the whole time suddenly said behind me. "See? Not every day needs to be perfect. Just sweet enough."

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‎I chuckled. "That sounds like something you’d embroider on a pillow."

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‎"Maybe I will," he said, pretending to glare. "And you’ll be the one to sell it."

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‎Mateo appeared with two steaming mugs. "Lunch break. Chef’s orders. Sit before you fall into the frosting."

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‎I obeyed, slipping onto the stool beside peace. The first sip of coffee was heaven — creamy, and rich, warming me from the inside out. The air hummed with a comfortable quiet, a stark contrast to the morning’s near-disaster.

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‎"Hey," Mateo said, watching me. "You seem lighter today."

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‎I blinked. "Do I?"

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‎"Yeah. You’re smiling so much. Not just... trying to."

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‎That startled a quiet laugh out of me. "Maybe I’m finally catching up with myself."

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‎"Good," he said simply. "You deserve a little peace." he looked at peace, grinning from ear to ear.

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‎The groan was immediate. Peace shoved Mateo’s shoulder with the back of his hand, still staring into his coffee. "Don’t you dare," he muttered, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, tugging upwards. "If I have to hear that pun one more time, I’m piping your name onto the next batch of sourdough."

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‎Mateo just beamed, wrapping an arm around Peace’s narrow shoulders, earning another half-hearted shove. "But it’s true! She does deserve a little peace. And you are peace. It’s practically destiny." He winked at me. "See? Philosophy."

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‎I laughed, the sound mingling with the low hum of the espresso machine starting up again in the front. "Destiny, huh? Careful, Mateo. Next you’ll be selling matching ’Peace’ and ’Tranquility’ aprons."

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‎"Precisely!" Pedro’s voice cut through our moment, making us all jump. He’d materialized beside the counter, holding a slightly lopsided but undeniably charming carrot cake adorned with candied walnuts. "Peace sells the aprons. Tranquility designs them. Mateo... tests them for comfort. While I," he placed the cake carefully on the counter with a satisfied nod, "ensure the profits cover the cost of your philosophical nonsense." His eyes, however, were crinkled at the corners, warm as the afternoon sun still glazing the lemon cupcakes. "Now, this cake needs to go to Mrs. Gable. She’s expecting it for her grandson’s birthday."

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‎The sudden assignment landed in the middle of our laughter like a stone. Mateo, ever the opportunist, pointed a lazy finger at me. "Tranquility’s turn for a delivery. It’s her official inauguration."

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‎I looked from the lopsided cake to Pedro. "Mrs. Gable? The one who always complains the frosting is ’too sweet for the youth of today’?"

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‎"The very one," Pedro said, wiping his hands on a towel. "Consider it a test of your newfound lightness. Don’t let her dim it."

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‎Before I could protest, Mateo had already slid the cake box into a sturdy carrier. "Don’t worry," he stage-whispered. "If she starts in on you, just tell her it’s a new recipe. ’Emotional Resilience Cake. Very low in criticism, high in self-reflection.’"

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‎Peace snorted into his mug. "That’ll get you a rolling pin to the head."

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‎Box in hand, I pushed through the swinging door into the café. The transition was immediate—the cozy, flour-dusted backstage gave way to the polished performance of the front room. A few late lunchers lingered over novels and laptops, and the gentle hiss of the espresso machine was a soothing metronome.

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‎Mrs. Gable lived only a few blocks away, in a brownstone with impossibly clean windows and a brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head. The walk was a continuation of the afternoon’s gentle cadence. Sunlight dappled through the canopy of old oaks, and the cake carrier swung lightly at my side, a pendulum keeping time with my easy steps. I realized Mateo was right. The weight I usually carried on my shoulders—the one made of constant worry and the need for everything to be just so—felt lighter, almost forgotten.

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‎I reached her stoop and shifted the box to ring the bell. As I did, the toe of my sneaker caught on a uneven paver. Time seemed to warp, stretching into a horrific, slow-motion ballet.

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‎The box tilted. My grip, meant to steady it, became a clumsy shove. The container slipped from my fingers, arcing through the air as gracefully as a fallen leaf, before meeting the stone steps with a soft, devastating thump.

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‎Silence.

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‎I stood frozen, staring at the white box now resting crookedly on the step. A slow, ominous ooze of cream cheese frosting began to seep from one corner, staining the cardboard a pale orange.

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‎The door swung open. Mrs. Gable stood there, a petite woman with a sharp gaze that immediately dropped to the box. Her lips, already thin, pursed into a tight line.

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‎"Oh," I said, the word a pathetic little puff of air. "Mrs. Gable, I am so, so sorry."

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‎She didn’t speak. She simply bent, her movements precise, and lifted the box. She carried it inside and placed it on a hall table, flipping the lid open with a grim finality.

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‎The cake was a disaster. A landslide of cake and frosting had crashed into one side of the box. The once-proud candied walnuts were now buried in the creamy wreckage. It looked less like a birthday cake and more like a topographical map of a particularly unfortunate mountain range.

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‎I huddled in the doorway, the scent of warm vanilla and espresso on my clothes suddenly feeling like evidence. So much for lightness. So much for peace.

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‎Mrs. Gable studied the ruin for a long, excruciating moment. Then, she turned to me, and I braced for the sharp, sweet critique I knew so well.

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‎But it didn’t come. Instead, a strange, dry sound rattled in her throat. It took me a second to realize it was a laugh.

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‎"Goodness, dear," she said, a genuine smile breaking through her severe expression. "It looks just like the one my Harold made for me when we were first married. A complete mess." She picked up a stray walnut and popped it in her mouth. "He was so nervous, he dropped it right on the kitchen floor. We ate it with spoons, straight from the pan."

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‎She looked from the cake to my horrified face, her eyes softening. "My grandson is two. He’ll think this is the most fascinating cake he’s ever seen. We’ll tell him it’s a cake from the dinosaur era, freshly excavated."

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‎Relief washed over me so powerfully my knees felt weak. "I... I can run back to the bakery. Pedro will make a new one in twenty minutes, I’m sure of it."

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‎"Nonsense," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "This one has a story. And besides," she added, her eyes twinkling with a mischief I’d never seen before, "it proves your Pedro is human after all. I was starting to suspect he was a very talented android."

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‎I walked back to the bakery, the empty carrier swinging lightly. The sun was still warm, the children were still laughing, but the simple, golden perfection of the day had been cracked open. And something better had seeped out.

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‎When I pushed through the swinging door, three faces turned to me: Pedro’s expectant, Mateo’s curious, Peace’s typically guarded.

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‎Mateo spoke first. "So? How much of a tongue-lashing did you get?"

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‎I set the empty carrier on the counter. A slow smile spread across my face, making my cheeks ache all over again.

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‎"I think," I said, meeting Pedro’s gaze, "we should add ’Catastrophe Cakes’ to the menu. They come with a better story."

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‎Pedro’s eyebrows shot up. Then, a deep, rolling laugh filled the bakery, mingling with the smell of sugar and the promise of a perfectly imperfect afternoon.

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