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 an address:
Rukas Carlov,
Elder's Lane, Eldhollow.
Her breath caught in her throat—this time from surprise.
Seven stared at the name, her eyes tracing each letter slowly, as if trying to match it to a face she had never seen.
"Rukas Carlov".
She murmured it aloud, letting the name settle in her mouth like the first taste of honey.
Eldhollow. The name of the nearest village—though "near" was generous. It was still a full day's journey across fog-draped woods and winding ridges.
Her hunch about the anonymous sender being a traveler and noticing her on the night of the festival near the well was right.
Her eyes drifted toward the sill once more.
How did he reach it?
She smiled, folded the letter, and tucked it under her pillow.
This time, she felt amused—and oddly assured by the letter, as if now she could trust the words and the person behind them.
---
In the bakery, Seven reached for her mixing bowl, her hands moving with purpose.
She baked the same cake that day—the one he remembered, the one that "wounded" him.
As the sweet smell filled her little shop and the last swirl of sugar settled into a golden crust, the realization hit her.
How would he taste it again?
She looked at the cake. Then at the hills. Then at the address.
The cake was too fragile to send by post. And she would be too foolish to deliver it herself.
"No," she muttered, scolding herself, "that's just foolish."
The day on the mountain passed slowly and peacefully, and evening arrived.
---
Still thinking about the letters, her fingers reached for her own parchment this time.
She sat at her counter, still in her apron, the scent of cinnamon clinging to her sleeves.
The candle flickered with every quiet thought, and her words flowed easily—like steam curling from the surface of warm tea.
> To Mr. Carlov,
I hope all this is not a joke.
And if you really wanted to have the cake again, come visit our bakery.
I'm sure you know the address well.
And oh, this time—please come through the door.
Warmest regards,
The Baker of Kavan
She sealed the letter and slipped it into the pocket of her apron.
Later, after dinner, she went to her room with a small plate of freshly baked cake and a spoon.
She set the plate on the windowsill, pulled the chair near the desk, and sat down.
She took a bite. The edges were still soft. The center warm.
As the flavors melted in her mouth, she closed her eyes and savored it.
Then, she pulled out the letter tucked under her pillow—Rukas's latest—and the one she had just written.
She glanced at both, then carefully poked a hole in Rukas's letter and hung it beside the other two already swaying from the beam.
Her own reply, she tucked gently under the rosemary pot before closing the window and locking it.
Plate in hand, she went to the kitchen, washed it, and placed it back with the rest of the clean dishes.
Just as she was about to leave the kitchen, she heard footsteps—soft and slow—as if someone was walking toward the door.
But when she turned to look, no one was there.
One of the shelves stood empty—where the cake had been.
It had gone missing, and she hadn't even noticed.
She stared for a moment, then simply exhaled.
Without a word, she closed the kitchen door behind her and returned to her room, finally ready for the sleep she'd been needing.
---