A few days later, I decided to learn something new.
Something human.
Cooking had always fascinated me — the way people could turn simple things into warmth, into comfort. It was creation, in its gentlest form. Maybe that was why I liked it so much. I, too, had been created once.
Lily had mentioned that her favorite dessert was apple pie. "Just like Grandma used to make," she said with a grin. I'd never tasted one before, but her eyes lit up every time she talked about it.
So I decided that would be my next goal.
---
I sat at the kitchen table with a small laptop open in front of me — a silver rectangle of light and sound that still felt like magic. I typed "how to make apple pie" into the search bar and watched as hundreds of recipes appeared.
Each one different.
Each one confident.
Each one claiming to be perfect.
It reminded me of how humans always reached for perfection — even in small, sweet things.
I scrolled through images of golden crusts, cinnamon-dusted apples, and melting sugar. My porcelain fingers traced the screen softly, leaving no mark. The glowing recipes reflected in my glassy eyes.
> "Preheat oven to 190 degrees Celsius."
"Combine apples, sugar, cinnamon, and flour."
"Roll out the dough."
Simple enough, I thought.
I found an old cookbook in the cupboard too, pages yellowed and creased. Its handwritten notes made it feel alive — as if someone long ago had loved these recipes enough to keep them close. I smiled at that. Maybe I could add my own notes someday.
---
The kitchen became my workshop.
Flour dusted the air like snow.
Apples gleamed under the light.
I rolled the dough, pressed the crust, followed each step exactly. But my hands still trembled — not from weakness, but from hope.
Hope that I could create something beautiful again.
The smell of cinnamon and butter filled the air. It reminded me faintly of the boutique — the sweetness of new fabric, the warmth of laughter. I felt… alive, in a way I hadn't felt in a century.
When the pie was finally done, I placed it on the table, steam curling into the air. The golden crust shone softly in the light.
Lily came home just as I finished cleaning the counter.
She dropped her school bag and gasped. "Clara! Did you bake that?"
I nodded, suddenly shy. "I… tried. It might not taste right."
She laughed and grabbed a fork before I could stop her. "It smells amazing!"
Her first bite made her eyes widen. "Clara, this is so good!"
And then she smiled — that bright, innocent smile that could light an entire room.
For a moment, I forgot what I was.
For a moment, I was just someone's friend.
---
Later that night, when the house was quiet again, I sat at the same table and looked at the half-eaten pie.
Something about it made me proud… and sad.
Proud, because I had made it.
Sad, because the simple joy of creating — of being human — was something I could never truly have.
I traced a finger along the edge of the plate, feeling the faint warmth that still lingered there.
And I whispered to myself, quietly enough that only the dark could hear:
> "Maybe this is what living feels like."