The chiffon girl woke into herself slowly, like honey finding its shape in a glass jar.
Outside, the world was cool and blue, wrapped in the hush of early morning. Somewhere nearby, a little bell jingled — a sound bright and small as a star — and she followed it on bare feet.
The bakery was still waking up too. A sleepy woman behind the counter dusted flour from her hands and smiled without looking. The air smelled like butter, milk, and warm promises.
The chiffon girl drifted among the baskets and shelves, touching nothing, only feeling. The softest breads called to her: golden, cloud-light buns, lined up like dream pillows. Tarts blushed with pale pink slices, dewy and sweet.
In a quiet corner, a small jar of honey gleamed, thick as a sunbeam.
She chose a little plate — a milk bun, a peach tart, a tiny glass of hot chocolate — and sat by the window, where the sunlight made her skirt glow like mist.
Her first bite was trembling and slow.
The bread melted on her tongue, warm and tender as a mother’s hug she barely remembered.
The chocolate was richer than anything she’d ever read in a diary.
And the molasses — oh, the molasses.
It wrapped around her senses like a lullaby, golden and slow, dripping sweetness into every corner of her vaporous heart.
For the first time since she’d become whole, she wasn’t gathering layers or seeking meanings.
She was just being.
Being warm.
Being full.
Being real.
Outside the window, the world blurred into soft pinks and golds. A sparrow hopped by, a ribbon fell loose from a little girl’s hair, and the chiffon girl, the diary-eater, the vapour woman, simply smiled to herself and stayed.