Finally arriving at the café, I took up my post in the kitchen, ready to start the day. Throwing on my apron, I grabbed the bowel of dough under the table I had prepared the night before. Kneading it, I thought about how baking is one of the only things that made me truly happy. Even if it wasn’t the “manliest” of activities, I still enjoyed it, it didn’t matter then as well. That was because of my small, slim frame and dark hair just long enough to tie into an extremely short ponytail.

    The reason behind my love of baking was that one of my only memories of my mother was of her baking. It always had reminded me of her, in a good way. The scars on my face did the opposite of that. Even though I covered them so others couldn’t see the burn marks, I could always know they were there. They reminded me of the bad side of my mother. The version of my mother who was never there. The one who was cold to me. The version of my mother who had screamed at me to leaver alone. I don’t hold it against her, though. I knew she was dealing with a lot of things. Coming back to reality, I realized there was a tear rolling down my cheek. This surprised me. I haven’t cried about my past in a long time. Usually I just feel numb and try to ignore the invasive thoughts that enter my mind. Infecting it. Growing like a toxic fungus that left untreated, will slowly kill the host.

    I tried to clear my head as I started to chop the apples for the filling of the tarts I was making. Along with the bread I had put in the oven, the kitchen was starting to smell wonderful. That is another thing about Avaires, we have heightened senses. That way we can smell, see, and hear better. After finishing the filling, I started to fill the tarts.