Klein awoke with flour on his sleeve.
Not metaphorical regret-flour or a poetic dusting of existentialism—actual flour. Soft, pale, and faintly humming. He sat up slowly and watched it shimmer, then vanish like a forgotten appointment.
"…Well, that's ominous," he muttered.
A bell chimed in the distance.
It was not the kind of sound one heard from real bakeries. This bell carried the tone of an oven timer that knew secrets, the chime of pastries being born in parallel dimensions.
He didn't remember standing, but the world shifted under his feet.
And suddenly—
A street that hadn't existed until someone dreamed it twice.
A lamppost made of teaspoons and antique lace, humming softly with forgotten recipes.
A building stitched into the seams of reality like a patch sewn on by a distracted god.
And a smell—sweet, savory, sour, salty, spicy... and several flavors that hadn't been named yet, but definitely had opinions.
Above the door, carved into frosted wood:
"The Somnomnial Scone"
Open only to those in lucid denial.
"Well," Klein murmured, "that tracks."
He hesitated—just long enough for the door to sigh and swing open on its own.
It smelled like warm dreams and reckless baking.
He stepped inside.
It was warm. It was deeply warm, like being wrapped in your grandmother's apron if your grandmother had been a theoretical physicist with a baking obsession.
Display cases lined the room. Croissants coiled like sleeping cats. Tarts winked when you walked past. One small bread loaf floated slightly off the shelf and whispered ideas into a crouton.
The bakery pulsed with soft golden light, the kind that clung to your clothes like powdered sugar dreams.
Behind the counter stood a woman who may or may not have been stitched together from lace, warmth, and terrifying pastry wisdom. Her apron shimmered with flour that refused to settle. Her eyes were two glints of marzipan mischief.
She had no face—just a head of mist, spiraling gently.
Her name was stitched onto her flour-dusted apron in delicate gold:
Lady Euphonia Crust
"Welcome, Klein Moretti," she said in a voice like sifted spices. "You've been summoned, the oven's been expecting you.
Klein wasn't sure whether to bow, curtsy, or offer a heartfelt apology to the scent of cardamom in the air.
"I didn't realize bakeries had summoning protocols," he said, cautiously diplomatic.
Lady Euphonia Crust smiled like someone who had once baked prophecy into a pie.
"We don't wait to be summoned. We find the lucid… especially the hungry ones."
She turned with a graceful flick of her flour-dusted wrist, gesturing to the wall behind her—
where a menu shimmered into view, inscribed in looping script upon parchment made of delicately pressed shortbread.
It smelled faintly of vanilla and ink.
---
Today's Dream-Baked Delicacies
• Flour That Forgets
• Bread of Almost-Choices
• Stalker's Delight (Brioche Edition)
• Croissant of Self-Doubt (Handle With Caution)
• Muffin of Temporarily Recovered Memories
• Macarons of Half-Forgotten Promises
• Scone of Mildly Unsettling Insights
• Steamed Paradox Pudding
• Tea (Regret, Moon, or Mystery blends available)
---
The menu shimmered slightly, as if aware of his indecision. There were far too many options—each one sounding like a dessert and a cryptic warning in equal measure.
Klein stared. The longer he looked, the more he was sure the pastries were staring back.
"Too many choices," he muttered. "I'm afraid if I pick one, the others will resent me."
The air didn't disagree.
"Just tea for now," Klein decided, his voice low and a little apologetic. "The Mystery blend."
The parchment menu curled at the edges in what might have been approval. Somewhere behind the counter, a kettle began to hum in a minor key.
Lady Crust offered a knowing nod and drifted toward a teapot shaped like a clock melting politely over its own saucer.
But the moment her back turned—
A low, existential growl rolled through the room like a stomach full of unresolved feelings.
A flicker of butter-gold.
A shift in the air thick with pastry tension.
Klein blinked. Slowly.
The Croissant of Self-Doubt had stirred.
It twitched. Shuddered. Then launched itself from the glass case with an audible fwoomp, vengeance rising from its glossy shell in sixteen flaky layers.
"YOU DARE TO QUESTION ME?" it bellowed, in 17 overlapping voices that all sounded like his inner critic at varying stages of a breakdown.
Klein instinctively raised his arms to shield himself as the croissant spiraled toward him, flaking judgment and crumbs of insecurity.
"Not again," he muttered, stepping aside as it whizzed past like a buttery missile of angst.
He sighed.
At this point, dodging emotionally volatile pastries was practically part of the dining experience.
Behind the counter, Lady Crust didn't so much as turn her head. "Please don't antagonize the self-doubting ones, dear. They're very impressionable."
---
Round One: Buttered Chaos
The Croissant of Self-Doubt tackled Klein with the dramatic flair of a pastry haunted by its own layers, sending them both crashing into a heap of metaphorical baguettes and very real emotional baggage—some of which Klein was pretty sure wasn't even his.
They rolled, flour flying like regrets never voiced. A guilt-frosted glaze swiped past his ear, missing by inches.
"WHY DO YOU EVEN EXIST?!" the croissant screamed, its voice cracking like overbaked crust.
"Because brunch demands it!" Klein shouted back, elbowing aside an aggressively opinionated cruller.
They tumbled into a side chamber—warm, humid, and humming with unspeakable gluten tension. A meringue in the corner shivered, then exploded in a hiss of sugar and existential panic.
Klein grabbed the nearest utensil—an oversized spatula shaped like a judge's gavel—and deflected a high-speed barrage of crumbs.
"You cannot beat me with utensils of denial!" the croissant bellowed, radiating buttered bravado.
Klein countered with a swift jab of a ceremonial whisk, aiming straight for its ego.
It staggered back—then glowed.
"I am flaky!" it roared. "But I RISE!"
The proofing chamber pulsed with rising heat and swelling doubt. Klein braced himself. "Honestly? That was kind of inspiring."
The croissant hesitated mid-charge. "...Really?"
Klein nodded, panting. "Ten out of ten motivational poster energy."
"Wait—are you validating me?" the croissant asked, looking genuinely thrown.
Klein shrugged. "Maybe brunch can contain multitudes."
They stood there for a moment, awkwardly surrounded by scattered custards, the faint hiss of existential scones, and the slowly deflating ego of a once-combative pastry.
In the doorway, Lady Crust peered in. "Would you two like a cooling bun of reconciliation?"
Klein wiped glaze off his cheek. "Yes. Please. And maybe the tea that I said earlier. Mystery blend."
---
Round Two: Emotional Filling
Just as the buttered tension threatened to roll into round two, Lady Crust drifted in like steam from a simmering kettle—serene, flour-dusted, and entirely unfazed by the ruins of her proofing chamber.
She raised one hand, graceful as a rising soufflé.
"Use the jam, Klein," she intoned. "It's the only way."
Klein blinked. "The what?"
She pointed—to a glowing jar resting atop a crate of metaphysical danishes, its label handwritten in looping script:
Existential Raspberry – Pairs Well With Emotional Breakdown.
No time to think. He dove, narrowly avoiding a ricochet of regret-infused croutons, and came up with a spoon already trembling under the weight of unsaid feelings.
The croissant lunged.
Klein met it halfway—and smeared the jam straight across its metaphorical insecurities.
There was silence.
A twitch. A shudder.
Then… a whimper.
It sniffled. A single dollop of inner doubt oozed from its flaky crust.
"I… was I ever truly golden?"
Klein, crouched in sugar-dust and quiet sympathy, nodded solemnly. "You were overbaked, yes. But earnest. Honest. Real."
The croissant sobbed.
And gently—tenderly—Klein placed it into a waiting basket labeled 'Healing Arc,' lined with soft napkins embroidered with affirmations like "You are more than your layers."
A long, meaningful pause.
From the corner, a stoic cinnamon roll—half-glazed, arms folded like a therapist with tenure—gave a slow, approving clap.
Lady Crust wiped an invisible tear from the air. "You've passed the trial of doubt, Klein. The tea awaits."
And somewhere in the distance, the oven of destiny dinged softly.
---
Aftermath of the Dough-Heavy Duel
The croissant lay comfortably nestled in its basket, now quieter, softer, its layers less brittle. Klein wiped jam off his hands and exhaled in a mixture of relief and disbelief. He glanced at Lady Crust, who was calmly arranging a fresh batch of doughnuts that had definitely not been there a moment ago.
"Is it always like this?" he asked, still catching his breath. His heart was doing its best to pretend it hadn't just been in a wrestling match with existential pastry.
Lady Crust didn't look up. "Only when the dough rises with a grudge."
Klein raised an eyebrow. "I didn't sign up for pastry therapy."
"Everyone signs up for something," she said, her voice holding the cryptic warmth of overcooked bread. "Some of us just don't know it yet."
He stood up, dusting off flour that had decided to attach itself to his clothes like uninvited guests at a party. "So, am I free to go now? Or should I expect some emotionally charged scones next?"
"Oh, no," Lady Crust said with a smile that made him rethink his position in the kitchen. "We haven't finished yet."
Before Klein could respond, a soft bell chimed above the door, its sound like a distant dream calling someone else's name. The door swung open of its own accord, and a light breeze swept through the bakery—warm, sticky, and oddly comforting.
From the doorway stepped something that Klein was sure hadn't been on the menu: a towering stack of Brioche of Forgotten Promises, each layer pulsing with a faint glow. It looked like it had always been there, just waiting for someone to notice.
Klein blinked. "What now? A brioche? How's this one going to traumatize me?"
The brioche took a step forward, its golden edges shimmering in a way that made the air hum. Then, in a voice as smooth as honey and as heavy as time itself, it spoke:
"Did you really forget what you promised?"
Klein froze. This... this was not the usual bakery banter.
The brioche tilted slightly to the side, its soft, doughy layers rippling with waves of regret. Klein swallowed.
"I... I don't know what you mean," he said slowly, trying to keep his voice steady, but the brioche knew—oh, it knew.
A rumble like distant thunder shook the bakery. The brioche seemed to expand, layers thickening as if trying to swallow the air itself. Klein took a cautious step back. There was something deeply unsettling about its presence, something unfinished in its essence.
"I... I promised to eat less carbs this month," Klein said, trying to reclaim his normal human tone. He didn't really believe that was what the brioche meant, but it felt like the best place to start.
A low, amused hum reverberated from the brioche. "Promises aren't just for food. You promised something else, didn't you?"
Klein could feel the weight of the question pressing down on him, as though the air itself was asking him to remember something he wasn't sure he wanted to face. He glanced at Lady Crust, who was silently watching the exchange, her hands busy with an entirely different batch of pastries that Klein could swear had appeared out of nowhere.
"Do you want the brioche to reveal your forgotten promises?" Lady Crust asked without looking up, her tone almost casual.
"I... I don't think I do," Klein muttered, his mind racing. The brioche's golden crust seemed to shimmer with expectation.
The brioche seemed to sense his hesitation. It gave a soft, doughy sigh. "It's okay," it said, voice thick like buttered nostalgia. "Not all promises are meant to be remembered."
Klein exhaled, relieved. He'd never thought a pastry could have such... existential gravitas.
Lady Crust finally looked up, meeting Klein's eyes with a smile that held an entire bakery's worth of mysteries. "See? It's not so bad. You just have to know when to walk away."
She handed him a plate with a single Scone of Mildly Unsettling Insights, a piece so delicate it felt like it might dissolve the moment he touched it. "Take a bite, Klein. I think you'll find the answer you were looking for."
Klein blinked, his appetite for unexpected philosophical bites somewhat diminished by the day's events, but still... curious.
"Well, this is certainly the strangest meal I've ever had," he said, staring at the scone. "But I guess... I'll take a bite."
He took a small bite. And suddenly—everything made so much sense. The mysteries of the universe, his current career trajectory, and the correct way to fold napkins—all swirled together in a perfectly balanced moment of understanding. It was unsettlingly simple, like a long-forgotten truth that had always been there.
Lady Crust nodded, as though this was entirely expected. "See? Life is just a series of crumbs and promises. You're learning how to taste them both."
Klein glanced at her, a half-smile creeping onto his face. "Is there a pastry for that?"
"Not yet," she said, eyes twinkling. "But I'm working on it."
Klein leaned back, taking in the odd, delicious peace that settled in his chest. As bizarre and strangely personal as this experience had been, there was something undeniably soothing about Lady Crust's presence and the strange pastries she served.
He'd never look at a bakery the same way again.
---
Back at the counter, Lady Crust moved with a quiet grace, pouring a cup of Mystery Blend from a teapot shaped like an hourglass, its edges misting with the slow tick of time. Steam curled from the cup, rising like forgotten memories, twisting in patterns that Klein swore were telling him something.
He took a sip.
The tea was cool moonlight steeped in sorrow, a flavor that felt like walking through a fog that was almost familiar. Faint lavender—soothing, yet bitter—tugged at the corners of his consciousness. There were hints of starlight caught in a distant breeze and whispers of midnight promises never kept. It was the taste of things unspoken, moments brushed against but never fully understood.
"What's in this?" Klein asked, setting the cup down, the weight of it lingering like an unanswered question.
Lady Crust, with her unruffled calm, glanced at him over the rim of her own cup. "Mostly what you almost said," she replied, her tone light but carrying a depth that made Klein pause, "and a little bergamot."
Klein's eyebrows shot up, but before he could respond, she continued, her voice softening as if the very air in the bakery had wrapped itself around them.
"You know, we all carry unspoken words. The ones we almost let slip out, the ones we hold close because we think they're too fragile or too... dangerous. But they don't disappear. They linger, like the scent of fresh bread in the air long after the oven's been turned off."
Klein took another sip, savoring the bittersweetness that felt like a taste of both closure and yearning. He hadn't expected a tea to feel this way—like it could hold the weight of unspoken promises, forgotten regrets, and the strange peace of things left unsaid.
"I guess it's fitting," he said slowly, his gaze drifting to the pastry shelves that now held only calm, slumbering doughs. "I've had a lot of things I didn't say. Too many words I left hanging in the air."
Lady Crust nodded, watching him with an understanding that felt as if she could see every piece of him he hadn't yet come to terms with. "Tea has a way of making things clear. Not always in the way we expect, but it does have a way of bringing what's hidden to the surface, even if just for a moment."
Klein leaned back, looking out the window at the fading light outside. The street was still there, yet somehow less strange, less disjointed, as though everything was exactly as it should be, if only for the briefest of moments. The chaos of croissants and brioche felt like a distant dream now, the echoes of it melting away with each sip.
"Maybe it's time to stop avoiding things," he murmured to himself, his fingers tracing the rim of the teacup. "Not everything needs to be said. But some things... I think they need to be tasted."
Lady Crust smiled, a flicker of warmth passing through her cool demeanor. "Exactly. And sometimes, the only way to truly understand something is to live with it, even if it's just in the space between bites."
She refilled his cup, and Klein, for the first time since stepping into this curious bakery, felt the weight of the world shift slightly—like the faintest breath of wind on an otherwise still night.
"I think," he said, lifting his cup once more, "this tea will be my new favorite flavor of chaos."
---
Then came the Muffin.
At first, it seemed so innocuous—a small, unassuming thing, its top golden and slightly cracked, steam curling lazily from its surface. Klein wasn't sure why it felt… different. But there was something about it that tugged at the edges of his awareness.
Lady Crust, who had been observing the whole exchange with an unreadable smile, finally spoke. "It holds a memory you forgot. Not necessarily yours."
Klein blinked, unsure of what to make of her words. Still, he took a bite.
The moment it touched his tongue, everything shifted.
A flood of sensation washed over him—running through rain as laughter echoed in a language he didn't recognize, standing on a rooftop, the wind in his face, promising someone he'd remember something important, something that felt like it could change everything.
And then—just as suddenly as it came—it was gone.
Klein sat there, staring at the muffin, utterly perplexed.
"…That was not mine," he muttered to himself.
Lady Crust didn't seem surprised. "Memory," she said, her voice soft but carrying a weight to it, "is the most borrowed of ingredients. Sometimes it's not your own you taste, but someone else's. Something left behind, forgotten, or… borrowed."
Klein paused. The taste, the sensation—it felt like something important had slipped away from him, just out of reach. His fingers still tingled from the brief rush of it, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if he had even truly eaten, or if the muffin had merely served as a portal to a forgotten part of himself.
Before he could linger too long on the thought, Lady Crust handed him a small, crinkling paper bag. It whispered faint lullabies as it passed from her hands to his, and Klein could have sworn he heard it rustle suspiciously.
He glanced at her. She met his gaze with an almost imperceptible nod, as though urging him to trust her—though her eyes twinkled like she knew exactly what kind of chaos was about to unfold.
"Do not open unless you intend to forget something meaningful," she cautioned, her tone half-mysterious, half-amused. "It contains flourless flourless muffins. Very rare."
Klein raised an eyebrow. "And very confusing," he said, half-expecting the bag to say something back.
Lady Crust smiled—a slow, cryptic curve of lips dusted in powdered sugar and secrets. "Like all good desserts," she murmured with a chuckle that could have been a whisk stirring dreams. Then, with a rustle of her flour-swept apron, she turned away, already conjuring her next impossible creation.
Lady Crust's laugh, light and crisp as the air before dawn, followed him out the door. The mystery of it all, of everything that had happened—and everything still to come—lingered in his mind like the last sip of tea that's just too good to put down.
Klein stared down at the bag, its rustling whispering sweet nothings of forgotten things. With a shrug, he tucked it under his arm, deciding that for now, the flourless flourless muffins, would remain a mystery—much like the bakery itself.
---
He awoke in his bed.
The room was quiet, soft light spilling through the curtains. For a moment, he lay there, the weight of the world still pressing gently against his chest, as if the dream he had just left behind might still have a hand on his shoulder.
But when he reached down to adjust his sheets, his fingers brushed something crinkly—a paper bag.
He stared at the bag for a long time, its parchment sides still warm, still whispering lullabies he couldn't place.
Then—against better judgment and several cryptic bakery warnings—he opened it. Slowly. Deliberately. As if peeling back a memory.
No flash of light. No dramatic swirl of pastry-based fate.
Just the hush of something almost forgotten. The scent of baked dreams curling through the air—soft, wistful, and oddly heavy. Like an adventure that had already happened... somewhere else.
Klein inhaled deeply, letting the aroma fill the quiet spaces in him.
And for a moment, he wasn't sure what he'd lost.
Only that it had tasted sweet.
He glanced up the wall, still tasting the sweetness.
On his celestial loyalty card, a fresh stamp awaited him:
3 Gourmet Revelations Attended
6 More Until Enlightenment + Complimentary Cronut of Clarity
---
Klein's Review:
Ambience: hazy, enchanted, yeast-forward.
Pastries: introspective, possibly prophetic.
Host: delightfully cryptic, top-tier apron game.
Croissant Battle: emotional and cardio-intensive.
Baker Name Puns: 10/10.
Existential Crumbs: still finding them in his coat. One definitely hummed earlier.
Would dine again (but will wear a helmet and bring a jar armor next time).
10/10
---
The scent of baked dreams lingered, but Klein couldn't help but feel a faint thrill running through him. There were more revelations, more journeys to embark upon, more pastries to taste. And somehow, he felt a little closer to understanding the odd path his life seemed to be baking toward.
---
Next Chapter: Klein dines beneath the Evernight Cathedral, where prayers echo like cutlery and shadows are served with a side of revelation.
Leonard Mitchell arrives on official church business(Probably)… only to find Klein already seated at a table set for two, beneath chandeliers made of quiet starlight.
The main course? Something that remembers being worshipped.
Will Leonard maintain solemn dignity while arguing with a sentient liturgical dish?
Will Klein pretend this counts as penance?
Will either of them figure out why the hymns keep harmonizing with their thoughts?
Will Klein finally ask if this counts toward his Celestial Loyalty Card?
Find out next time in The Fool's Gourmet Tour!