SINFUL AFFAIRS: MUM, I DESIRE YOU.

It was a Thursday. Or perhaps a Tuesday. Elara could no longer tell. Time had become as irrelevant as love letters never sent, as empty as the fifth cup of tea she drank out of sheer boredom. The rain tapped rhythmically against the stained-glass windows, each drop sounding like a whisper from the past. The sky outside was a melancholic gray, as if even the clouds had decided to give up. She sat alone in the grand hallway of the estate, her eyes fixed on something small, something mundane. Toast. Yes. A single slice of toast rested on the velvet cushion beside her, its crust barely darker than her soul, the buttery sheen glistening under the pale chandelier light like secrets long buried beneath a marble floor. She stared at it. It stared back. Well, not really. But it felt like it. She didn't know where the toast had come from. She didn’t remember making it. The butler was off today, and the kitchen staff had vanished hours ago after their spirited debate about whether cereal was a soup. Elara had heard them shouting something about “milk betrayal” and then—silence. The toast had simply… appeared. She leaned forward, her fingers trembling slightly as they reached out to touch it. Warm. Her breath hitched. Toast didn’t stay warm on its own. Someone had to have made it. Someone had to still be in the house. A chill ran down her spine. A note lay beneath it. Folded once, aged at the corners. She lifted the toast gently—as one might lift a sleeping baby or a cursed artifact—and slid the note out. It was blank. Or perhaps invisible ink. Or perhaps… a message only the heart could read. “Elara,” came a deep voice behind her. She jumped, toast flying from her hand and landing on the marble floor like a fallen comrade. She whirled around dramatically, as she’d practiced in front of the mirror so many times. There he stood. The gardener. “The toaster's broken,” he said solemnly. “So I used the fireplace.” She gasped. “You mean… that toast was wood-fired?” He nodded, his expression grave. “Everything tastes better with a hint of danger.” She swallowed hard. “You could’ve killed someone.” “I know.” Silence. Elara turned back to the fallen toast. It lay there, crumpled and butter-side up. Her heart broke a little more. It had deserved better. All toast did. She knelt beside it. “Rest now, warrior. You have served your purpose.” Lightning cracked across the sky. --- An hour later, she stood in front of her bedroom mirror, wrapped in an unnecessarily large velvet cloak. Her eyes were wild. Her hair was tousled, not from wind, but from existential dread. She stared at herself. “Who are you?” she whispered. The mirror didn’t respond. She tried again, louder. “WHO ARE YOU?” Still nothing. Frustrated, she threw the cloak dramatically onto the chaise lounge, which had done absolutely nothing to deserve such treatment. Elara paced. Toast. Notes. Fireplaces. Gardeners. Nothing made sense anymore. She needed answers. She needed closure. She needed— A meow interrupted her spiraling thoughts. A cat she did no t own stood in her doorway, blinking slowly. “Toast is a lie,” it said. She fainted.