“I’m really proud of you, you know. This is a pretty big step. Getting back into the saddle, making new friends, new memories. It’s good stuff, really good stuff.”

Grim keeps his eyes on the cookbook within his lap, skeletal fingers tapping an anxious rhythm along the spine when he turns a pair of glowing white eyes upon his sister. “I do not think the other cooks like me.”

“No way”, Banshee says as she pulls their hearse into park, turning a disbelieving stare upon him. “Did something bad happen? Did you get hazed?”

If he could, he’d disappear entirely into the oversized black robe that he’s been wearing since childhood. As is, he can only sink ever so slightly into the passenger seat before he responds in a monotone voice, “Someone made me a cake that said ‘No one likes you’”.

“Oh. They’re probably just jealous.” After a moment’s passed, and a Grim’s yet to leave the hearse, Banshee hums to herself, the feathers over her eyes furrowing ever so slightly. “Come on, big guy. You used to murder hundreds of thousands of people everyday. I think you can handle a few snot-nosed bakers.”

She’s right. In his heart, he knows she’s right. After serving as the Grim Reaper for thousands of years, he should be fearless. All the same, when he climbs out of the hearse, he can’t help but feel his legs turn to ectoplasm. He’s got his spellbook-turned-cookbook held close to his chest, warily eyeing the massive building before he turns back to the hearse. “You have my sincerest thanks. For your kind words and your transportation.”

“No biggie”, Banshee says with a shrug, and he turns to leave, only to pause at the next words that leave her mouth. “She’d be proud, too, you know. To hear you’re going back.”

In spite of himself, Grim smiles. He holds his cookbook ever closer and responds, “It means a lot to hear you say that”. His smile then tightens ever so slightly. “If Dirge calls-”

“I know, I know.” Banshee makes a zipping motion across her lips. “If he asks, I’ll just tell him you’re out herding zombies again.”

With a nod in approval, Grim affords the back seat of her hearse a moment’s stare, his eye sockets locking onto where his scythe lies against the leather cushions. His skeletal fingers twitch after it before he tightens his grip on his cookbook and shakes his head at himself. He came here for a fresh start, for a new beginning, and that’s precisely what he intends to do. And if anyone has anything to say about it, well, he’ll handle it in a professional and non-lethal fashion. He bids Banshee goodbye before turning once more and hurrying across the courtyard of the Culinary School of Arts. Once he’s inside the Baking Wing, he opens his cookbook, flipping through the pages until he at long last comes upon today’s assignment.

And curled between those pages into the fetal position is a doughboy of a lifeless shade and lumpy texture. He scoops him into his hands, lower lip pulled between his teeth as he simply stares at him.

He doesn’t know where he went wrong. He followed the recipe. Fair enough, he procured the milk from the dead cow that jumped over the moon, but he hadn’t quite thought it’d make such a difference.

He’s pondering if he has enough time to start over when someone suddenly collides into him and sends him sprawling to the ground. He stretches out a skeletal hand at the last moment and saves his doughboy from turning into a pile of goo before turning a discontent stare to the left, only to then falter at the sight of what greets him.

A woman in a black t-shirt and plaid yellow cargo pants sits in a heap of papers. A floating broomstick sweeps her items in place before she rises to her feet. She brushes her golden hair out of her face, her blue eyes widening as they catch sight of Grim. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just got this thing, and I ain’t really got a handle of it yet.” She darts her eyes to the clock beside them, seeming to waver before she bites her lower lip and extends a hand to him. “You okay?”

“...I-I am well, thank you”, Grim says after a moment and finds his bones growing warm as the woman helps him to his feet. He cradles his doughboy close to him.

The woman lets out a grimace and says, “Sorry”.

“Pardon?” With a frown, he glances down at his slumbering creation and finds embarrassment descending upon him. “Oh. No, he was…he was like this before.”

Understanding seems to greet the woman as she glances down at the doughboy in question. “Oh. Well, he could probably use some more yeast then.”

“Of course. I-I knew there was something I was forgetting”, he says before clearing his throat. “I’m Grim. Grim Graves.”

The woman just raises her brown eyebrows, then extends a hand and says, “Well, I’m Angela Su-Sweet”. She shakes her head at herself. “Sweet. Angela Sweet”. She brushes a lock of her behind her ear, eyeing the clock once more. “Sorry, again, but, uh, I was hoping to get a word in with the Chef and-”

“Of course. It was nice meeting you all the same.” With a courteous nod, Grim watches her disappear into the classroom, her long flowing yellow hair trailing behind her like her own personal waterfall. All the while, he lowers to a sit outside the class, legs folded criss-cross applesauce. He flips through the many pockets of his robe, ignoring the pouch of eye of newt in favor of a pouch of yeast. He sprinkles it above his doughboy, and the pile of dough shudders. To Grim’s delight, he lets out a yawn before turning a sleepy-eyed stare up at him. Lips pressed closely together, he smiles at him. “Hello, little one.”

More people begin to file in, and, opting to ignore the dirty looks he gets as he goes, he files in after them. He takes a seat in the back of the class, noting Angela at the front as he brings his sleepy doughboy to sit atop his cookbook.

Class has started five minutes ago when Chef Coco finally saunters in, a skip to his step as he happily comes to sit atop his desk. “Hello, hello, hello, everyone. I’m happy to see so many bright and cheerful faces on this lovely Monday morning and even happier to see your progression with your assignments.” He sits criss-cross applesauce and leans back against his desk. “Remember, they will be a big part of your final grade. So make sure you take very good care of them.”

Grim gives an insistent nod of the head, only to then find his unbeaten heart stricken by the sight of his own doughboy venturing to the edge of his desk and almost plummeting to his doom. He dumps several of his books out of his backpack and shields him from the edge with a quiet breath.

It’s fine. He was the Grim Reaper. He can handle baking school.

Right?