Alta smiled as he folded the dough under his hands, humming softly to himself. He enjoyed days like these, as few and far in between as they were. When he could just… make bread. 

The overhead lights cast a warm glow against the deep blue still clinging to the windows, and the faint outline of frost had begun to lace the outer panes. It was always like this in early December; cold mornings, breath fogging faintly inside the bakery until the ovens kicked in and turned the chill to something close to comfort. Near the window, a small pine wreath hung beside the "Open at 6AM" sign, something the front girls had insisted on putting up a few days ago. A red ribbon looped loosely at the top, dusted with the tiniest flecks of gold glitter. It had been crooked for two days now, but Alta didn’t care to fix it.

He carefully folded the dough in his hand, slowing down his tempo as he felt it reach the right consistency. Alta loved making bread. Every step. The precision that was needed to make the dough, to the physical stress release of kneading and shaping. The pure joy and pride that came from smelling and seeing a perfectly baked masterpiece. Decorating cakes was fun, and he didn’t mind plating pastries, but bread? 

That was his joy.

Alta glanced up to see the time, realizing his shift would be over soon and the sun would be rising to greet him. He didn’t mind working overnight, especially since he got to open the bakery and greet the morning girls with enthusiasm. Neralle would always make him his favorite coffee before he clocked out, and he’d nurse it while wiping down the counters, enjoying that fleeting, golden quiet that came just before the early bustle. There was comfort in routine. 

Routine. 

“Morning,” Neralle’s sleepy voice and the slam of the back door jolted him out of the spiral he hadn’t even realized he’d started. Atla blinked, the soft hum on his lips dying away as he looked over his shoulder. Neralle’s black hair was a mess like usual, but Alta never expected anything else from them. Their jacket hung off one shoulder, and they had the vague look of someone still halfway between the realm of dreams and the ache of morning chill.

“Hey,” Atla said, letting a warm smile spread across his face. He turned back to the dough, flipping it into the oiled proofing bowl with practiced grace. “You’re early.”

“Figured you wouldn’t mind.” Neralle dropped their bag onto the breakroom chair and yawned like a cat. Shoulders high, hands stretching to the ceiling. “Wanted to be able to talk. How did it go last night?”

“It was good. She was still okay with everything,” Alta allowed himself a smile, remembering his last meeting with Beth. “I explained everything before we paired.”

“I know, but we both know sometimes they don’t take it well, especially after so long,” Neralle tied their apron as they leaned down to kiss Alta’s hair, a gesture that made him smile. Their height difference wasn’t that big, but Neralle liked to be tall. “So, it’s yours for now?”

“For now.”

“How long do you plan to wait before a new master?”

“Maybe a few months, maybe a year. Definitely not more than a year,” Alta nodded, maneuvering his way to the proof box. He slid the bowl onto the rack with a practiced twist and wiped his hands down the front of his apron. His knuckles still ached from the earlier kneading, the deep work that pulled strength from his shoulders and soothed something that had been too restless for sleep. “I just want to be me for a while.”

“I know.” The sound of the coffee maker started to drown out Neralle’s voice, and Alta turned slightly to watch them through the steam. Neralle didn’t need to speak louder. He knew what they were saying, even if the words were only half-formed over the rhythmic clink of ceramic cups and the familiar whirr of boiling water. “I’ll kill her if I find her.”

“You and everyone else,” Alta chuckled, but it was a hollow sound. It wasn’t because he didn’t believe Neralle. He knew they meant it with every fiber of their immortal soul. But he had heard it too many times to believe anyone would ever catch her. Their gaze met his, just for a moment, and in that look was everything Alta didn’t want to say aloud. 

The fear. The disbelief. The quiet exhaustion of being looked after, protected, mourned, while still very much alive. Neralle didn’t flinch from the look, didn’t soften it with false comfort. They just stepped forward, slow and measured, and set the coffee down on the prep table beside him.

“Extra cinnamon,” they said.

“Thanks.” Alta picked it up and cradled the warmth against his palm. He didn’t drink it yet. The scent was enough, for now. Something solid. Familiar. Real.

A silence settled between them, not heavy, not unwelcome. Just… full. It was the kind of silence that carried the weight of too many unfinished thoughts, the kind that lingered in spaces where nothing could quite be fixed but everything still had to keep going.

“Enjoy your name, okay?” Neralle finally said, their voice a thread pulled tight between affection and grief. “No matter what, it’s always yours.”

Atla closed his eyes and let the steam from the cup brush against his face, a gentle fog that clung just enough to make the moment feel suspended. He exhaled slowly, the motion deepening the quiet between them, then nodded.

“I will,” he said, finally sipping his coffee as he moved to the back of the kitchen. 

By the time the sun spilled through the front windows, warm and gold and oblivious, the bakery had come to life. The front girls arrived with their usual teasing remarks and early gossip, laughter winding between racks of fresh rolls and the flurry of morning prep. The bell above the door chimed steadily: commuters, parents, regulars, all coming in for their fix of caffeine and breakfast before starting their day. 

Alta merely waved as he shouldered his bag, leaving out the front door as he stepped onto the street. He breathed in the morning air, relieved that no pheromones filled his nostrils. Not any he could tell, at least, and that was a blessing. 

“Stores not open yet,” Alta muttered, his mind still lingering on the warmth of the bakery behind him. The cinnamon clung to his tongue like a memory, sweet and sharp. He tucked his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and started walking, not toward home but into the lazy pulse of the waking city.

This early, the streets still felt liminal, suspended in that soft breath before the rest of the world truly caught up. Buses groaned at corners, dragging sleep-stunned passengers toward obligation. Shop owners unlocked their doors with a practiced routine. A runner passed by, earbuds in, sweat already gleaming at their temples. Someone was stringing garland around a lamppost, humming off-key to a carol playing from a tiny portable speaker. Alta took his time.

It was a liminal day, too.

It was the first morning in years where he walked with nothing pressing against the inside of his skin. No push to obey. No tether. No heat demanding his attention. Just him and his name. 

He wound through side streets that curled like secrets around the older part of the city, where the sidewalks were uneven and the buildings leaned together in quiet conversation. He remembered when this was the newest part of the city. He remembered where it was little more than a market square and a few squat brick buildings, when the roads were gravel and the lamplight ran on oil and hope. The ghosts of those years tugged at his memory, familiar and bittersweet, like the scent of old flour in the corners of a cupboard. 

The bench in front of the park was still there, though; the one with the crooked slats and peeling green paint. Atla dropped into it without ceremony, the wood groaning under his weight like it recognized him. The sun finally broke over the line of buildings, casting long, golden fingers across the dew-slick grass. A child shrieked in delight somewhere to his left, chased by a caregiver holding a dripping juice box. Birds stirred in the hedges. Somewhere nearby, a delivery van beeped as it reversed into a loading zone.

“It’s a nice day,” Alta decided, letting his legs stretch out before him, arms loose over the bench back, soaking in the morning light as though it could unspool the last of what remained tight in his chest. The coffee in his hand had cooled slightly but was still warm enough to comfort, the kind of slow heat that didn’t demand attention, just gave it freely.

After a while, Alta got up and made his way to the store. Groceries were easy enough; mostly vegetables, flour, a few specialty items he liked to keep on hand, and a new tin of the cinnamon Neralle favored. He moved without a list or hurry, letting the familiarity of the routine guide him. He liked this market, with its high ceilings and the scuffed tiles near the produce bins, the soft creak of shopping carts with uneven wheels. It smelled faintly of oranges, onions, and plastic wrap and somehow, he liked it that way. 

He paid at the self-checkout, bagged his things with automatic ease, and started the walk home. The sun was stronger now, casting sharp shadows on the sidewalk, but the breeze kept the heat in check. He saw a group of schoolchildren darting ahead of their guardian, a cluster of bouncing energy and bright-colored backpacks. A man stood outside his shop, sweeping the pavement with broad, satisfied strokes. 

The moment he stepped into the apartment, the silence met him like an old friend. Atla nudged the door closed with his foot and set the grocery bags on the counter with a soft sigh. The space smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and dry wood, the windows still cracked from the night before. He hadn’t bothered to close them when he left; he liked the way the wind carried in city noise, made everything feel a little less like a box and more like a breathing thing.

He took his time putting the groceries away. Flour in the tall glass container on the counter. Carrots and leeks in the fridge drawer. The cinnamon for Neralle he left in the bag. He’d give it to them later. Alta picked up his water can, walking over to close the window and give his plants some much needed care.

It took Alta a moment to remember he hadn’t locked the front door and he rolled his eyes, walking back to secure the entrance. He had almost forgotten how peaceful life could be, how nice it was to be…

“Khezen.”