Seven woke to the chill of the morning air—the kind of cold that made her shiver and pull the blanket tighter around herself. She groggily opened her eyes and blinked, frowning when she realized the source of the cold—the window was open.
She was sure she had closed it the night before, after carefully hanging the letter by the pot.
Confused, she pushed herself up from the bed, her feet landing softly on the wooden floor, and moved toward the window. She was about to shut it when something caught her eye—a folded piece of parchment, tucked neatly under the rosemary pot. The wind had been trying to pull it away, but it was secure enough to be noticed.
Curious, she reached for the letter. Her fingers brushed the edge of the paper, and she felt the weight of it in her hand. Another letter. The same size, the same crisp, cream-colored paper. She stepped back into her room, the morning light spilling across the floor, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
This time, the sender's words were slightly different. More direct. More... playful.
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To the Sweet Baker,
I see my first letter ended up hanging outside your window like forgotten laundry. Charming. I must admit, I was touched—touched in the way one might be by a cold breeze at dawn.
But, of course, I understand your caution. A stranger leaving mysterious letters at your window might appear suspicious. Especially one who speaks of your cake with far too much enthusiasm.
I won't say I'm hurt, but I had hoped my words would find a warmer reception. And yes, I'd love another bite of that cake—without the toothpick this time, of course. A simple request, surely?
I'll leave it to you, then, to decide how to respond to my humble confessions.
Yours in cold drafts and crumbs,
—The Still-Wounded Admirer
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Seven blinked at the letter for a long moment, her brow furrowing. She couldn't help but smile at the sender's audacity. Who was this person, and why were they so... bold?
She had to admit, there was something about the tone. The sarcasm, the playful hint of mischief—it made her laugh. It was unexpected, and she liked that. Still, she wasn't going to let herself be too intrigued. She folded the letter and placed it under her pillow, then went ahead with her day's duties. The morning tasks were already waiting. Flour needed to be sifted, dough needed to be kneaded.
Her thoughts lingered on the letter, though, as she worked through the routine of the day. Who could it be? Someone from the village? Maybe one of the boys who had been at the festival that night, bored and looking for a bit of amusement?
The hours passed in a blur. By dinner, she found herself distracted, staring absentmindedly at the food. She hadn't even realized how quiet the evening had grown until her mother called her to clear the dishes.
After dinner, she slipped back into her room, checking the windowsill for any new letters. None. Going toward her bed, she took out the letter, made a hole in it, and hung it with the first letter. Now hanging side by side in the soft moonlight.
"Who are you?" she asked, looking at the letters, then out at the vast expanse of mountain and trees and some scattered houses. With a deep breath, she closed the window and locked it, determined to sleep.
The next morning, when the sun peeked through the trees and touched the village with its warm golden fingers, she awoke again to the cold breeze. The window was open.
And just below the rosemary pot—another letter.
This time with a name and address.
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