With every word, the memory seemed to gain shape around its edges, set in a hidden clearing tucked deep within the woods. Another vague recollection stirred, faint but insistent. I abruptly pushed back my chair and hurried towards the map I’d been creating of the surrounding area, still tucked inside the pocket of my red cloak where I kept it whenever I explored.
My heart beat fast as I unrolled the parchment across the table. My gaze frantically traced each careful line and notation, following the path we’d taken through the forest. My breath caught when I reached the small notation written near the edge of the clearing where the enchanted berries grew.
I heard Gabe rise from his seat and approach behind me, his warmth enfolding me like a cloak as he leaned over my shoulder to study the map.
Written in the margin, squeezed between two notes regarding landmarks and terrain, were words I didn’t remember writing:the place where I laughed again.
My fingers lightly traced the words. When had I written that? Perhaps while recording the clearing yesterday, before the tarthad taken the emotion away. If they hadn’t been written in my own hand, I almost wouldn’t have believed the memory they recorded was real. The proof lay plainly before me, impossible to deny.
Yet rather than bringing comfort, the discovery only deepened the ache inside me. Forgetting something that had once been precious didn’t erase its value; it only made me aware of what had been lost and could never be taken back.
I reached for the map, but Gabe’s hand landed atop it first. His fingers didn’t stop me; they simply rested there, protecting the page. For a moment neither of us spoke. “I’d forgotten,” I finally murmured. “This was the emotion I gave up for your tart.”
A heavy silence followed my whispered admission. Beside me, Gabe went completely still. “You…” His voice caught. “You sacrificed your first laugh…forme?”
I glanced up at him. “You needed the spell.”
His sadness washed over me through our connection with such force that it left me breathless. He stared at me for a long moment before slowly shaking his head in disbelief. “For someone who claims not to feel, you’re remarkably selfless.”
I wanted to protest—there was nothing selfless about sacrificing emotions so I wouldn’t have to endure the pain they caused. Yet the argument faltered before it could fully form. Some hidden part of me that I still didn’t understand cherished his good opinion far more than it should have.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew the worn journal I’d seen him carrying since the day we met. Opening it carefully, he turned several pages before removing a single pressed leaf. I immediately recognized it as one from the raspberry bramble in the clearing I’d seen him preserve after our time together.
He removed it with surprising gentleness and placed it in my palm. I stared down at it for a long moment before lifting my questioning gaze to his. “Why are you giving me this?”
His thumb brushed the edge of the journal. “Because it’s from a moment that was precious to me,” he said. “I keep leaves so I won’t forget the places I’ve been and the moments that mattered.” His gaze met mine. “Since your maps serve the same purpose, I thought you deserved something to help you keep this one too.”
For a brief instant, a fragment of memory surfaced at the touch of the leaf—rain glimmering on raspberry leaves, laughter echoing through a hidden clearing, dark eyes watching me with quiet wonder. The image vanished almost immediately, leaving behind nothing but an ache.
I had no words to describe the feeling swelling my heart at his selfless gift. All I knew was that whatever emotion was trying to break through my carefully constructed defenses was far too dangerous to explore, especially when it involved a man cursed never to remain in one place and a girl without feelings who could likely never return all the new emotions he was causing her to discover.
CHAPTER 12
Over the next week, the strange awkwardness surrounding Gabe’s unexpected stay gradually dissolved beneath the quiet rhythm of ordinary days. One morning blended into another until I no longer questioned his presence in the bakery any more than I questioned Nutmeg’s habit of stealing sugar or Grandmother’s tendency to eavesdrop from the doorway.
Each morning I found myself unconsciously searching the kitchen for him before remembering he had taken to rising before dawn. Sometimes I would discover him outside splitting kindling, sometimes wandering the nearby woods collecting edible herbs, and occasionally simply sitting beneath the awning watching the mist drift through the trees. His curse compelled him to wander, but our enchanted connection never allowed him to stray too far, a fact which grew more reassuring the longer we remained bound.
We spent the evenings researching the tracking tart and how to break the spell between us, but during the day Gabe accompanied me in the kitchen. He insisted upon helping with every commission, though his greatest contribution seemed to be volunteering to taste every tart that emerged less thanperfect. Despite repeatedly claiming he wasn’t particularly fond of sweets, he somehow never refused a single failed experiment.
Without asking, he began remembering the little things I never imagined anyone would notice. Which teacup I always reached for first, how I preferred honey stirred into chamomile but never mint, the medicines Grandmother needed as well as her favorite spot near the hearth, and which shelf Nutmeg inevitably raided whenever left unsupervised.
My maps gradually became less solitary affairs. Gabe would follow beside me while I sketched new trails, occasionally pointing out unusual trees or animal tracks I might otherwise have overlooked. In return, I quietly discovered that leading someone through the forest felt strangely different from exploring it alone. I had always believed maps existed merely to preserve places. But the longer Gabe stayed, I began to wonder if perhaps they also existed to share them.
His wandering seemed to quiet whenever we explored together. He still glanced towards every unfamiliar path, as though expecting the curse to tug him away without warning, but gradually those restless looks became fewer. Sometimes I would glance up from my map to discover he wasn’t watching the trail at all—he was watching me. And strangely, it didn’t take long before I began to watch him too.
It was dangerous how naturally Gabe had woven himself into the fabric of my days—like flour folded into dough, I could no longer separate where one ended and the other began. Each sunrise carried us one day closer to the full moon, when the bakery would once again leave the forest—and him—behind.
The thought lingered over every pleasant moment like spilled ink across a map. I had spent years convincing myself that nothing could be lost if I never allowed myself to become attached. Now, despite every effort to remain untouched, I wasbeginning to understand why people risked loving things that could not stay.
One morning about a week after the tart bound us, as I turned to leave the bedroom, I noticed that Gabe’s unpacked satchel that was always at the ready by the door in order to depart at any time was no longer in its usual position by the front door, but now rested beside the daybed. A quiet sign that he stopped expecting to leave at every moment.
I followed the comforting trail of his voice down the stairs. Before I even reached the last stair, I heard Gabe laughing with Nutmeg, the comfortable laughter of someone with a friend. I peeked into the kitchen.
Nutmeg had involved Gabe in a game of hide-and-seek she invented, disguising herself as loaves of bread, cinnamon rolls, or sugar jars while he dramatically pretended not to notice before gasping in exaggerated surprise when she revealed herself. Her delighted sparks filled the room.
I caught myself lingering longer than necessary simply to watch, smiling before I even realized I was doing it. I hastily rearranged my expression before entering the kitchen as though nothing had happened, and tried not to notice the way my heart lifted when Gabe smiled at me and wished me good morning. I couldn’t tell whether the warmth in my chest was my own or whether he felt the same way.
Today I had a commission for a batch of Soothing Sugar Cookies to bake for a funeral in the village. I hadn’t had many orders this past week, the bakery too deep in the woods for most to venture, leaving me once again to wonder why the magic had selected such a remote location; my well-stocked supplies from our previous location were quickly dwindling.
