FREYA
The scent reached me before anything else did. Warm, buttery, and rich, like a memory wrapped in air. My feet moved before I even thought about where they were taking me, drawn down the hall, following that fragrance the way a lost child follows the sound of a lullaby.
It led me straight to the kitchen.
The room was alive, though not in the loud, chaotic way of too many hands at work. Instead, it hummed with simple life—the soft clatter of a wooden spoon against a bowl, the gentle sigh of heat from the oven, the faint crackle of crust cooling on a tray. My eyes fell instantly to the counter where golden loaves sat, still steaming, like treasures begging to be touched.
I hovered at the doorway, torn between hunger and hesitation.
“You’ve got good timing,” a voice said, warm and f
