Page 30 of The Baker’s Shadow

Mrs. Patterson comes in just before I close. She’s one of Dan’s oldest friends, been coming to the bakery since before I even arrived in town. I’ve always liked her. Quiet. Kind. The type who remembers your birthday and brings you soup when you’re sick.

She studies me from across the counter, her head tilted slightly. “You’re looking well, Kaia.”

There’s something strange in how she says it. Not quite a question. Not quite a statement. Like she’s confirming something she already knows.

“Thank you.” I bag her usual, the dark rye she gets every week.

“The baby agrees with you.” Her eyes drop to my stomach, though I’m behind the counter and my apron should hide the curve.

My hand stills on the register. “How did you...”

“It shows.” Her smile is warm but there’s something else underneath. Knowledge. Recognition. “They always do, in this town.”

“They?”

“The babies. The changed ones.” She takes the bag, her fingers brushing mine. Her skin is cool, and for just a second I smell salt water and deep places. “We take care of our own here, Kaia. Always have. You’ll see.”

She leaves before I can ask what she means.

I stand there, frozen, watching her walk down the street. At the corner, she passes Mr. Rodriguez. They don’t acknowledge each other. Don’t speak. But something passes between them. A look. A nod. Like they’re confirming something.

The phrase sits in my stomach like a stone. Our own.

As if there’s a distinction. As if some people belong and others don’t, and the criteria has nothing to do with how long you’ve lived here or where you were born.

I think about the customers this morning. The way they reacted to the bread like it was feeding something deeper than hunger. The way the teenager’s eyes had that vertical pupil thing going on. The way Mr. Rodriguez never has a reflection.

We take care of our own.

Dan used to say this town was special. That the people here looked after each other in ways city folks didn’t understand. I’d thought he meant small-town values. Community spirit.

Now I’m wondering what he really meant and if “our own” means something else entirely.

This isn’t normal. This isn’t just good bread.

I’m feeding them something. My emotions. My magic. Whatever the hell I’m becoming.

When the lunch rush finally ends, I lock the door early. Put up the closed sign. Go back to the kitchen and stare at the remaining loaves cooling on the racks.

I pick one up. Break it open. The interior is soft and perfect, but when I close my eyes and really pay attention, I can feel it. A warmth that has nothing to do with temperature. A comfort that didn’t come from yeast or flour.

It came from me. From what Malak gave me. From whatever we created together in the dark.

I set the bread down carefully, like it might explode.

My hands are shaking.

Three years I’ve been baking in this kitchen. Three years of going through the motions, measuring and mixing and trying to feel something. Anything.

Now I’m finally feeling. And I’m terrifying myself.

The baby does a slow roll inside me. Not distressed. Just moving. Reminding me it’s there. That I’m not alone even when I’m standing in an empty kitchen with my heart racing and my hands covered in flour.

I wash up. Start prepping for tomorrow. Try to convince myself this is fine. Normal. Just a weird side effect that will fade.

But I know it won’t. The change is permanent. Written into my cells. Baked into every loaf.

I’m not the woman I was three days ago. I’m not even the woman I was this morning.