He dreamed first.
He was home again.
The morning sun spilled across the kitchen tiles, white and golden. The scent of toasted dough, butter, and berry jam drifted through the air, wrapping around him like a blanket.
His mother stood by the counter, her hair up, humming softly.
Her favorite floral apron, the one with faded strawberries, hung loose around her neck. The radio buzzed faintly in the corner — static, then music, something from when he was little.
James sat at the table, still in his pajamas, a little disoriented but warm, safe.
"Morning, sweetheart," his mother said, smiling without turning.
"Morning, Mom…" His voice cracked, like it hadn't been used in years.
He felt the strange awareness you only get in dreams — the fuzzy edges, the impossible calm. But it didn't matter.
She was here. That was enough.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
"Starving," he said, laughing lightly. "You make it smell like heaven in here."
She turned to him, holding a tray of freshly baked cookies, steam rising from them. Each one was golden brown, glazed, dripping with thick red jam. He could almost taste the sweetness from where he sat.
"Your favorite," she said. "Jam cookies, extra filling. Just how you liked them as a boy."
He smiled. "Yeah… I remember."
She placed one on a plate and slid it toward him.
The jam gleamed like rubies. He picked it up carefully — still warm, soft in the center — and took a bite.
The flavor hit like nostalgia: tart raspberry, buttery dough, a hint of vanilla.
Then — beneath it — something else. A noise.
Tiny, muffled.
Help…
James blinked. Crumbs fell from his lips. "Huh?"
He looked down. The cookie's jam center bubbled faintly. Something moved inside the filling — a face, almost — a small, doughy mouth frozen mid-scream.
Don't eat me—!
He dropped it instantly. It hit the plate with a wet plop. The jam oozed, spilling across the white porcelain, staining it dark crimson.
"Mom?" His voice was trembling now.
"What… what is this?"
His mother's hands were still on the counter. She hadn't moved. Slowly, she turned her head toward him — too slowly. Her smile didn't fade; it just stretched wider. The sound of her hum deepened, warped.
"Oh, Jamie," she whispered, voice layered, echoing. "Eat up. You'll need your strength."
On the tray, the other cookies began to squirm. Their jam centers pulsed like beating hearts. The sound rose — tiny screams, chittering voices crying out, "Help! Stop! Don't eat me!"
James pushed back from the table, the chair screeching against tile.
"Mom— stop! They're alive!"
Her eyes glimmered red, jam dripping from her lips.
"Then don't waste them, dear. Life's too sweet to throw away."
The jam spilled from the tray, creeping across the table like living syrup.
It reached his hand, sticky and warm, then burning.
He screamed—
—and woke with a gasp.
The air was cold. Wet. Thick.
He sat up too fast, hit his head on something solid above him, and fell back with a groan. His whole body felt heavy, stiff, stuck. When he tried to move his arms, they pulled against something viscous, holding him down.
He blinked rapidly, chest heaving. It was dark, except for a faint red glow — not from light, but from the liquid around him.
Jam.
He was lying in jam.
The thick, semi-liquid mass clung to his body, sticky and pulsing faintly, like it was alive. He gagged at the smell — sickly sweet, almost fruity, but with something burnt underneath.
"What… the hell…" he whispered hoarsely.
It took nearly an hour to free himself. His every motion made faint sloshing noises. The jam seemed to resist him, clinging, stretching like glue. He had to dig with his elbows, crawl inch by inch toward a slanted surface where the jam thinned. By the time he pulled free, his arms were trembling, slick with red.
He collapsed against the nearest wall, gasping, sweat — or jam — dripping down his face.
Then he saw his hands.
At first he thought the jam had hardened there. But when he rubbed it, pieces flaked off —
and not red, but beige.
Crack.
A thin piece of his fingertip broke away, falling to the ground like sugar glass.
He froze. "No…"
He turned his hand in the dim glow. It wasn't flesh. It wasn't skin. It was textured — like baked dough. Tiny chips along the edges. The faint smell of sugar.
His hands were cookies.
"No no no no—"
He scrambled back, eyes wild, inspecting his arms, his legs. The same — all dough, cracked, sticky with jam. Even his chest — when he pressed it, it flexed slightly, soft and firm at once, a half-baked consistency.
"Ahh! What the hell is this!?" His voice echoed off the walls of the cavern. It sounded wrong — lighter, higher, brittle.
He stumbled to his feet, swaying. Pain lanced through his joints. Every movement made faint crack sounds, like glass under strain. He gritted his teeth — or what felt like teeth — and forced himself upright.
He could see better now.
The chamber around him wasn't just a cave — it was the bottom of a well. Massive, stone walls rose high above, slick with sugary residue and moss. The pool he'd crawled from shimmered faintly red under the dim light of some unseen source.
And in that jam, countless shapes floated — broken pieces of what looked like… cookies. Arms, legs, halves of faces, all soft and half-dissolved. Their jam centers glowed faintly, pulsing. Some twitched.
James's breath caught. "Oh god…"
He turned away, stomach churning. His reflection in the jam rippled back at him — a face shaped like a cookie, cracks running along his brow, eyes dim but alive. A parody of himself.
He wanted to wake up.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted his mother.
But all that came out was a whisper.
"…This isn't a dream, is it?"
---
Time passed — minutes, maybe hours. He sat by the pool, breathing slowly, trying not to crumble — literally or figuratively. His thoughts spiraled. Was he dead? Was this hell? Or some twisted afterlife shaped by the game that consumed his life?
He laughed weakly. "Figures. Spend all day playing a cookie game, die, and become one."
His laugh turned into a choked sob. He covered his face with jam-slick hands, trembling.
That was when he heard it.
Slosh.
Something moved in the jam. Not one of the broken pieces — something whole. Something… alive.
He froze. The sound came again, a faint wet ripple, followed by a soft chirp, like a bubble popping underwater.
From the center of the pool, something rose — a shape like a cube, translucent and faintly glowing. It floated upward, wobbling slightly, jam sliding off its sides. Inside, faint ripples of light pulsed — like a heartbeat.
James stared. "…What the—"
The cube tilted, almost as if it were looking at him. It had no eyes, no mouth, yet somehow radiated curiosity. It drifted closer, stopping a few feet away, bobbing slightly in the air.
He blinked. "You… uh… hello?"
The cube pulsed once — a flash of pale blue through its jelly form.
It made a faint trilling sound, a wet gloop-gloop that somehow felt… friendly.
James hesitated. "Right. A… sentient cube. Sure. Why not. I'm already a cookie."
The cube hovered nearer, then gently bumped into his knee.
He flinched, expecting it to burn, but it was cool — soothing. Some of the aches in his legs faded immediately.
"…You're… not trying to eat me, right?" he muttered.
Another pulse. This one slower, softer. He felt warmth seep into him — reassurance.
It was alive. Intelligent. Curious.
He looked around. There was nothing else in the well but broken cookie pieces and jam. His stomach — or whatever organ he had now — growled faintly. Hunger.
He looked back at the cube.
"Wait… are you hungry too?"
The cube pulsed again — once for yes, perhaps. It turned toward the jam pool and bobbed twice, then toward him.
"You… want food?"
It wobbled excitedly.
James sighed. "Okay, okay, hold on."
He knelt beside the pool and, after a moment's hesitation, reached in. The jam was warm and thick, clinging to his fingers. He scooped a bit of the thicker stuff — one of the dark patches swirling near the bottom — and held it out.
The cube floated closer and absorbed it, the jam dissolving into its body like ink in water. Its glow brightened immediately, pulsing rhythmically, happy.
James smiled despite himself. "Guess that's a yes."
The cube circled him once, then bobbed toward a shadowed tunnel at the far edge of the cavern — a narrow, jagged passage partially hidden by fallen stones. It paused, turning back as if beckoning.
"You… want me to follow?"
Pulse. Yes.
James looked back at the jam pool — the broken pieces, the red reflection. Then at the cube, glowing softly in the darkness ahead.
Something deep inside him — instinct, maybe hope — whispered: Go.
He took a step, then another. The pain flared with each movement, but dulled the longer he walked, as though the cube's light eased it.
They entered the tunnel. The walls glittered with sugar crystals and jam veins, faintly bioluminescent. The air grew warmer, thicker. He could hear faint humming — low, melodic, almost human.
At one point, his hand brushed the wall and came away sticky with a new kind of substance — not jam, but jelly, translucent blue. He licked it on impulse — it tasted faintly of sea salt.
The cube pulsed brighter, pleased.
"You… made this, huh?" James asked softly. "Your… food?"
It floated ahead, pausing at a bend where the tunnel widened. A strange light flickered beyond — soft, oceanic blue. He could smell it now: sweet, briny, alive.
The cube turned back to him, hovering close.
For the first time, he felt it clearly — gratitude. A wordless warmth pressed against his mind. It wanted him to come. To see.
James nodded slowly. "Alright… show me."
They stepped — or floated — into the chamber beyond.
The light deepened, filling the air with faint motes of glittering jelly.
And there, at the center, lay a vast pool — clear blue, swirling gently — filled with strange shapes like himself, half-formed, submerged in liquid light.
The cube glided forward, ripples following its motion. It dipped once, feeding, then looked back. James stepped closer to the edge, mesmerized.
"…Beautiful," he whispered.
He didn't see the shadow moving deeper in the water.
Didn't notice the faint hum rising, the echo of something ancient beneath the sweetness.
He only felt the first pang of real hunger since he'd died.