The first few weeks after Clara's Crumble opened felt like a dream.
Every morning, the smell of freshly baked cookies and cakes filled the air before sunrise. Lily helped at the counter, her laughter bright and full of energy, while Clara stayed mostly in the kitchen — focused, calm, moving with the grace of someone who had found her rhythm after centuries of stillness.
Customers kept returning, bringing friends with them. Some came just for the cookies; others said they liked the way the place made them feel.
"It feels safe here," one woman told Lily.
"Like something warm I almost forgot."
Clara overheard it and smiled quietly to herself. She didn't need to be famous or praised — that feeling alone was enough.
---
One afternoon, while cleaning the counter, Lily's phone buzzed with notifications.
"Clara, look!" she said, showing her the screen. "Someone posted about your cookies on social media — and it's going viral!"
Clara leaned closer. The photo showed her butter cookies arranged in a box with a simple tag that read: 'Made with love — Clara's Crumble.'
Hundreds of comments followed.
> "These look amazing!"
"They remind me of my grandmother's baking…"
"I swear I've tasted something like this before, but I don't know where."
Clara blinked at that last comment, her fingers tightening slightly on the counter.
That night, she couldn't stop thinking about it.
Something like this before… but where?
She hadn't cooked in her human life — not much, anyway — but she remembered the smell of her mother's kitchen, long ago, when Jacob Moreau was still a boy, sketching doll faces by candlelight.
Maybe, somehow, that memory had lingered in her hands.
---
A week later, a letter arrived at the shop. It was neatly folded, addressed simply to "The Owner of Clara's Crumble."
Lily opened it, curious.
Inside was a short message written in elegant handwriting:
> Dear Miss Clara,
I recently tasted one of your cookies at a friend's home, and it brought back something I thought I'd lost — a taste from another time, perhaps another life. I have studied culinary heritage for decades, but I have never encountered a flavor so hauntingly familiar. I would love to meet you, if you would allow it.
Sincerely,
Dr. Rowan Pierce
Clara froze.
That name — she remembered it at once.
The historian who had found her before.
The only man who had ever looked at her and seen more than porcelain.
Lily noticed her expression. "Clara? You know him?"
Clara hesitated. "Yes… a long time ago."
---
The next day, she sat quietly at the counter, the unopened letter beside her. The shop hummed softly around her — the smell of sugar, the clinking of cups, the gentle buzz of conversation.
But her thoughts drifted far away, to the night Dr. Pierce had come to her door years ago, asking if she remembered being human.
She had told him only part of the truth.
Now, perhaps, it was time to tell the rest.
---
That evening, Clara wrote a reply:
> Dear Dr. Pierce,
It has been some time. I am glad to know you are well. If you truly wish to meet again, you may visit the shop any morning after sunrise. I will be here — as I always am.
Sincerely,
Clara
She sealed the envelope and placed it near the window, where the late sunlight turned the paper gold.
For the first time in years, she felt something stir deep within her — not fear this time, but readiness.
The past was reaching out again, but maybe… this time, she would be the one to face it.