The mornings in Eldoria always began the same way.
The first light of dawn spilled gently through the bakery's shuttered windows, dust motes swirling in the golden beams like tiny stars. The scent of yeast and warm flour floated through the air long before the village stirred, and in the quiet kitchen, Lyra sat at the wooden table, her small hands already dusted in flour.
She was only six years old, but she woke earlier than most grown villagers.
Because this was her favorite time—just her and Marien, before the world intruded.
"Soft hands, Lyra," Marien murmured, gently guiding her daughter's fingers over the ball of dough. "Like this. Don't press. Let it breathe."
Lyra nodded, brows furrowed in focus. "Like clouds?"
Marien chuckled. "Yes, like clouds. Bread is living, you know. It listens."
"I think it likes me," Lyra said with a grin, patting the dough as though it were a puppy.
Marien smiled, hiding the strange flutter in her chest. Bread did rise faster when Lyra touched it. The crust browned more evenly. The scent lingered longer in the air. There were days when even she, a baker for twenty years, couldn't replicate the flavor of a loaf Lyra had helped shape.
She never told anyone.
Not because she feared them. But because—deep down—she knew Lyra wasn't like other children.
And she loved her all the more for it.
---
By midmorning, the bakery's front door had already opened a dozen times. Customers bustled in, drawn by the warm aroma of rising dough and crackling crusts. Marien moved with practiced grace behind the counter, exchanging coin and bread with cheerful greetings.
Lyra stood on a small wooden stool beside her, handing out loaves with a bright smile.
"Here you go, Mister Bram," she said, holding out a still-warm roll.
The old man took it with a wink. "Bless your little hands, girl. Best bread in the kingdom."
Next came Mira's mother, cradling her baby. Then a soldier home from patrol. Then Gruntha, the ever-grumpy fish seller who always left with more than she paid for because Lyra "just liked her face."
No one ever left without smiling. Not when Lyra was there.
---
That afternoon, after the crowd thinned, Lyra sat cross-legged on the floor near the hearth, licking honey off her fingers. Marien sat nearby, mending a torn apron.
"Can I ask something?" Lyra said suddenly.
Marien glanced up. "Always."
"Did you always want to be a baker?"
The question caught her off guard. "Well... not always. When I was your age, I wanted to be a painter. Or a seamstress. Or a queen."
Lyra giggled. "You'd make a kind queen."
Marien smiled. "But life had other plans. I met your father. He taught me to knead dough before he taught me to dance."
"Do you regret it?" Lyra asked, not like a child, but like someone who understood regret.
Marien paused, needle hovering midair. "Not for a moment. Because this life gave me you."
Silence.
Lyra scooted closer and leaned against her mother's side.
"I'm glad it did," she whispered.
---
Later that week, the village prepared for the Spring Blessing Festival—a small celebration where families offered baskets of bread, wine, and herbs to the local shrine for a good harvest.
Marien had a special batch of sweet braided loaves planned, with dried fruits and honey. She woke Lyra even earlier than usual, before the sun crested the hills.
The girl blinked sleepily, then perked up at the scent of orange peel and cinnamon.
"We're making festival bread?" she asked.
Marien nodded. "You're old enough to help with the braids."
They worked side by side, the kitchen filled with the sounds of crackling firewood and dough being stretched and woven. Lyra's fingers fumbled at first, but Marien guided her patiently.
"Left over middle. Right over left. Just like braiding hair."
"I've never braided hair," Lyra pouted.
"Maybe I'll teach you that next."
They laughed.
By sunrise, ten perfect loaves sat on the table, shining golden with egg wash and glistening sugar crystals.
Marien stared at them proudly. "The gods themselves would be jealous."
Lyra's eyes twinkled. "Maybe they're watching."
---
At the shrine, villagers lined up with their offerings. Lyra clutched her basket tightly, standing next to her parents.
The shrine was small—just a carved stone arch under a flowering tree, its petals drifting like snow. No one remembered which god it belonged to, but they offered prayers anyway.
When it was her turn, Lyra knelt and placed her bread gently on the altar.
Please be kind to our wheat, she thought, closing her eyes. Let Mama's loaves always rise. Let our home stay warm.
Then something unexpected happened.
The breeze shifted. The petals above swirled in a spiral, landing softly atop her loaf like a crown. People murmured. A few even gasped.
But Lyra only smiled.
She didn't know why, but the wind always listened when she asked nicely.
---
That night, after the festival, Marien found Lyra sitting on the roof of their house, legs swinging gently over the edge.
"Lyra!" she called. "It's late."
Lyra turned. "I couldn't sleep."
Marien climbed up beside her. The stars stretched endlessly above, and for a while, they sat in silence.
"Do you think there's something... more?" Lyra asked softly. "Beyond the sky?"
Marien blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Sometimes I dream of a place filled with light. And music. But... it feels sad. Like I left something behind."
A long pause.
Marien pulled Lyra into her arms. "Dreams are just dreams, my love. What matters is what's here. This life. This moment."
Lyra nodded slowly, resting her head against her mother's chest.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
"I like this moment."
---
In the weeks that followed, Lyra became even more involved in the bakery. She began waking before her parents, opening the shutters, checking the fire. Her tiny hands became sure and steady, her movements instinctive.
She began giving names to each loaf—Hope, Warmth, Luck—and insisted that bread given with a name tasted better.
Tomas laughed, but Marien humored her. After all, customers did keep coming back asking for "whatever the girl touched."
But there was one customer who never smiled.
Old Widow Elsha, a reclusive woman with a limp and a face lined by grief, came once a week for plain rye. She never made eye contact, never spoke more than two words.
One day, Lyra stepped forward and handed her the loaf with both hands.
"This one's called Healing," she said softly.
Elsha looked up, startled.
Their eyes met.
Something flickered.
The old woman took the bread, said nothing, and left.
The next week, she came back—and smiled.
Just once. But it was enough.
---
That evening, as Marien tucked Lyra into bed, she paused in the doorway.
"Do you know what you are?" she asked.
Lyra blinked sleepily. "A baker?"
Marien smiled, stepping closer.
"You're a miracle."
Lyra giggled. "I'm just me."
But in her dreams that night, Lyra stood barefoot on a glowing balcony, a gown of white wrapped around her like starlight. She watched the world below—not as a child, but as something ancient.
Someone said her name, a whisper on the wind:
"Lyra..."
And though she didn't understand it yet, a piece of her began to stir.
A forgotten heartbeat.
A song without a name.
The Goddess of Life, wrapped in flour and firelight, was slowly beginning to awaken.
---
> In every loaf she touched, there was warmth.
In every soul she met, a seed of peace was sown.
And though the world saw only a child,
The heavens watched and remembered.