Chapter 1:
Isekai'ed (Eventually)
The first thing I noticed was the smell. Hay, woodsmoke, and something else—maybe goats? My eyes fluttered open to see a rough wooden ceiling and a spider crawling across one of the beams. I didn’t panic. I’d watched enough anime to know exactly what was going on.
I’d been isekai’ed.
Praise be. The legends were true. I closed my eyes for a moment and whispered, “Thank you, Lord. I always believed.”
Something creaked. I sat up too fast and knocked my head against a low-hanging lantern. Stars danced across my vision as I let out a muffled yelp. A warm hand settled on my shoulder, and I turned to see a woman with the wrinkled face of a raisin and the posture of a kindly potato.
“Oh, you’re up,” she said. “Took a mighty tumble, didn’t you? Been out near two days now.”
She was clearly a village elder. Probably the one who pulled me from the river or the portal or whatever dimensional vortex I came through. She handed me a cup of cloudy water.
“Drink up, boy. You’ll need your strength.”
I took the cup with trembling hands, eyes scanning the room. Woven mats, a crooked wooden table, a tiny window with no glass. A loaf of bread sat cooling on a clay dish in the corner. Primitive, rustic, charming—perfect.
I gave a slow nod. “May I ask, honored crone, what land this is?”
She paused, lips twitching. “Uh. Gribbleton?”
Gribbleton. The name of destiny. It echoed in my chest like a sacred bell.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ve heard it whispered… in dreams.”
“Oh. Huh.” She scratched her head, squinting at me. “You sure you’re alright in the noggin?”
I ignored the question. Obviously, she was testing me. Wise elders always did. I looked down at myself—still wearing jeans and a zip-up hoodie. They were dusty but intact.
“Did you… summon me?” I asked. “Or was it a prophecy?”
She blinked. “No. I found you facedown in the pumpkin patch. Thought you were a drunk tourist.”
“…Ah.”
A test. Definitely a test.
I drank the water. It tasted like bark, but I didn’t complain. She smiled at that.
“You’re a strange one, city boy. What’s your name?”
I paused. Names held power in other worlds. Couldn’t just give my Earth name. I needed something heroic. Something bold. Something slightly bread-related, for some reason.
“…Loafnir,” I said. “Loafnir the Unleavened.”
She stared. “Loaf… what now?”
“Loafnir,” I repeated, with more conviction. “It is the name I was given at the crossroads between realms.”
She nodded slowly. “Alright, Loafnir. Well, I’m Mama Gert. You can stay here till your brain unscrambles.”
Loafnir and Mama Gert. It begins, I thought.
She left me to rest, muttering something about “city boys and cracked coconuts.” I sat back on the straw bed, trying to recall how I got here. My last memory was… a power outage at my apartment? I'd lit a candle, tripped over something, then—
Light. A tunnel of light! Or maybe it was the neighbor’s flashlight. But no matter. I was here now. That was what counted.
I wandered outside just before noon. The village was glorious. Dirt roads, chickens roaming free, little stone wells, and crooked wooden houses with chimney smoke curling into the sky. A few people glanced at me, nodded, then went on their way.
No one questioned my clothes. No one stopped me. It was as if I’d always belonged.
A small boy chased a goat past me, yelling, “Stop eating the laundry!” I turned to see the goat chewing on someone’s underwear. I smiled. Truly, this was another world.
I wandered to a building that looked like a blacksmith’s forge—but instead of anvils, there were sacks of flour and racks of bread. The smell hit me like a fireball of holy energy. It was divine.
Behind the counter stood a broad man with forearms like hams and a face like rising dough.
“You the fella stayin’ with Gert?” he asked.
“I am Loafnir the Unleavened,” I said. “Sent by the fates.”
He blinked. “Huh. You know how to knead?”
I hesitated. “Only the hearts of tyrants.”
“Close enough. Come help with the sourdough.”
I tied on an apron and stepped into my destiny. I would master the art of breadcraft. I would become the Dough Knight. The Yeast Sage. The Crust Crusader.
As I shaped dough under the baker’s watchful eye, I noticed a girl watching me from across the room. She had flour on her cheek and wore a blue headscarf. Her eyes sparkled—though maybe that was just the morning light. Or the flour dust.
She rolled her eyes at me. “You look like a confused goat.”
“Ah,” I said, “so you’ve heard of me.”
She laughed, just once, then returned to washing trays. Her laugh lingered in the air longer than it had any right to.
Love interest confirmed, I thought.
By late afternoon, I was covered in flour, my arms ached, and my feet felt like breadsticks left in the sun. But I had made five loaves of something vaguely round and slightly golden. The baker clapped me on the back so hard I nearly face-planted into a cooling rack.
“You’ll do,” he said.
I beamed. “Thank you, Master Baker.”
“The name’s Ron.”
“Thank you… Master Ron.”
He winced but said nothing.
The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the town of Gribbleton. I stood in the bakery doorway, arms crossed, soaking in the scent of fresh bread and woodsmoke. This world, this place—it had chosen me.
Sure, the villagers seemed oddly modern at times. Someone was wearing Crocs, and I’d seen what looked like an extension cord dangling from a house window. But it had to be magic. Artifact remnants from an ancient age, perhaps.
I went back to Mama Gert’s that night, exhausted but proud. She served me soup with bread and a jug of something she called “spring milk” that tasted suspiciously like buttermilk and sadness.
As I lay down on the straw bed again, I whispered a prayer.
“Thank you, Lord, for this new life. I don’t know why you brought me here, but I’ll make the most of it. Even if I’m just a humble bread squire… I’ll rise like dough in the sun.”
Then I paused, opened one eye, and muttered, “...That was a good line. I should write that down.”
And with that, I drifted off into sleep—dreaming of dragons, sacred loaves, and the blue-eyed girl with flour on her cheek.
Chapter Two: Bread, Battle, and Beasts (Sort Of)The next morning I woke up convinced I’d missed a royal summons. That had to be why Mama Gert was yelling from the other room.
“Get your rump outta bed, Loafnir! Ron needs help with the rye!”
I sat up in a panic, straw in my hair, drool on my cheek. I’d slept like a baby ogre, full of dreams about floating toast and talking birds quoting Scripture. I scrambled into my hoodie, stuffed my feet into the boots Mama Gert had left by the door, and charged out into the bright morning like a man possessed.
“Sorry! I was, uh, meditating. About grain spirits.”
Mama Gert didn’t even blink. “Just run. He’s already muttering about using the goat instead.”
I sprinted down the dusty lane, dodging chickens, skipping over a suspiciously friendly pig, and nearly faceplanting into a flower cart. When I burst into the bakery, Ron was already elbow-deep in dough and glaring hard enough to sour milk.
“You’re late,” he grunted.
“Forgive me, Master Ron. I was receiving a vision.”
He snorted. “Was it a vision of you snoring like a lumberjack?”
“I—I do not snore. I sing in my sleep.”
“Sounded like a busted tractor.”
Fair enough.
He tossed me a lump of dough. “Split that into eight, then braid ‘em like the girl taught you yesterday.”
“Which girl?” I asked casually, though I knew exactly which one he meant.
As if summoned by plot convenience, she walked in right then, carrying a crate of eggs. Her name was Eva—short for something longer, probably Evangeline or Evelynia the Fair or some divine-sounding name. Her blue headscarf was freshly tied, and she had that faint smudge of flour on her cheek again. I was starting to think she left it there on purpose.
She glanced at me, then at the lumpy dough in my hands.
“You’re holding that like it’s an enemy soldier.”
“It may yet betray me,” I replied.
Ron groaned. “It’s bread, Loafnir. Not a beast. It won’t bite.”
“Anything can bite if it believes in itself,” I said solemnly.
Eva stifled a laugh. “You’re really going to lean into this fantasy thing, huh?”
I froze.
“…Fantasy?”
She blinked. “Er—fancy thing. You know, how fancy your words are. You talk like a bard with a thesaurus.”
Crisis averted.
We spent the morning kneading, shaping, and hauling trays of rolls into the brick oven. I considered the oven to be a fire altar. I even muttered a short Psalm over the loaves before placing them inside. No one stopped me.
Midway through the day, the village bell rang. I assumed this was a signal for battle or monster raid, so I grabbed the nearest baguette like a sword.
“It’s noon,” Ron said dryly. “That means it’s lunchtime.”
I nodded, lowering my bread weapon. “Ah. A false alarm.”
“Or your brain’s just cracked.”
We sat on wooden crates out back while Mama Gert arrived with a picnic basket full of leftovers—some barley stew, hard cheese, and two apples. I took one bite and groaned.
“This is divine.”
“It’s soup,” Ron said.
“I taste the blessing.”
Eva joined us with a cloth-wrapped package. She opened it to reveal three honey rolls, still warm.
“I figured you earned these,” she said, handing one to me.
I bit into it and nearly cried.
“It’s... it’s holy.”
Eva raised an eyebrow. “It’s honey and wheat.”
“From the promised fields.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.
My heart did a little jig.
We sat there in companionable silence, chewing slowly, watching a cow chew even slower across the fence.
Then it happened.
A roar tore through the sky above us. My head jerked up just in time to see a giant metal beast scream past overhead—white and silver, with wings like an angel and a tail that blinked red.
“DRAGON!” I screamed, leaping to my feet and slipping on a clump of butter.
Eva blinked. “That’s…a plane.”
“A what?”
She paused. “A... pain. You know. From the gods.”
I clutched my chest. “A beast of pain? Truly, this world is harsh.”
Ron scratched his beard. “You didn’t see that big plane yesterday?”
“I was communing with the nap spirits.”
He rolled his eyes so hard I swear I heard them creak.
Eva just smiled. “You’re kind of adorable, you know that?”
“Adorable like a mighty wolf pup, or adorable like a clown in a chicken costume?”
“Bit of both.”
I considered that a victory.
That afternoon, while cleaning the prep area, I found an old soda can behind the flour sacks. It was faded and crumpled but bore the sigil of a long-lost era: Mountain Zing: Now with Extra Buzz. I lifted it reverently.
“A relic of the Old Ones,” I whispered. “A token from the Aluminum Age.”
I tucked it into my belt like a trophy.
That night, after scrubbing dough off my arms and saying grace with Mama Gert over a plate of bean mush, I stepped out into the yard and stared at the stars.
They looked the same as ever.
“Maybe,” I whispered to the sky, “this world isn’t as different as I thought. But I’ll still be ready. For swords. For sorcery. For...whatever.”
A moth landed on my face, and I screamed like a banshee.
“Get it off! Demon sprite!”
Mama Gert stuck her head out the door. “It’s a moth, boy. Not everything’s got magic in it.”
I waved my arms furiously. “Tell that to my eyeball!”
She just shook her head and ducked back inside, muttering, “Heaven help us.”
Eventually, I flopped onto my bed of straw, still clutching the soda can like a relic. I stared at the ceiling, feeling oddly at peace.
So what if I hadn’t seen a castle yet? Or a monster? Or a single dungeon? I had bread. I had Eva. I had… purpose.
Maybe this world didn’t need a hero.
Maybe it just needed a guy with dough on his face who thought everything was enchanted.
And that, I thought proudly, I could handle.
Chapter Three: The Quest Board and the Holy GoatThe sun was already up by the time I tumbled out of bed, tangled in straw and hope. My hoodie was covered in flour from the day before, and I wore it proudly, like armor still crusted with the sweat of battle. Mama Gert was already outside feeding the chickens. She shouted something at me about “using soap this time,” but I was on a mission.
Today, I would find the Quest Board.
In every fantasy village worth its salt, there’s always a tavern. And in every tavern, there’s always a board nailed to the wall, covered in parchment requests for slaying beasts, gathering herbs, or delivering mysterious packages. I knew it was only a matter of time before I was asked to defeat a local goblin king or escort a princess to the outer mountains.
So, with my soda can relic secured at my belt, I set off down the dirt road toward the center of town, humming what I imagined was a bard's tune. It was actually the VeggieTales theme, but no one seemed to mind.
The tavern—or rather, the café that I insisted was a tavern—stood on the corner of Main and Birch. Hand-painted signs in the window offered things like "Apple Fritters," "Cold Root Beer," and "Fish Fry Friday." I took this as confirmation that the people here ate enchanted roots and fried sea serpents.
Inside, I was greeted by the scent of coffee and burnt toast, and a woman behind the counter who looked like she’d wrestled a bull and won.
“Well, well,” she said, squinting at me. “You’re Gert’s stray, aren’t you?”
“I am Loafnir the Unleavened,” I said, placing a hand over my chest. “Do you have need of a brave soul?”
She blinked. “I have need of someone to fix the squeaky door hinge in the back.”
“A minor quest to prove my worth. I accept.”
She pointed. “There’s a wrench on the shelf.”
I bowed, took the wrench, and marched to the back room like I was heading into Mordor. The hinge wasn’t even that bad—just a little squeak when the door opened. But I grunted and tightened the bolts like it was a drawbridge to a cursed castle.
When I returned, she gave me a cold biscuit and a thumbs up.
“You’re alright, weird boy.”
I took it as a mark of honor.
But then—there it was.
On the far wall of the café was a corkboard filled with handwritten notes. The Quest Board!
I rushed over and began reading the parchment quests:
“Looking for someone to feed Miss Tilly’s cats while she’s at bingo.”
“Lost goat again. If you see her, bring her back. She answers to 'Daisy' (sometimes).”
“Extra hands needed for youth group car wash this Saturday. Bring buckets.”
My eyes gleamed. A lost goat quest, a sacred feline-keeping mission, and a water-based purification rite for the young warriors? My first tier of adventures had arrived!
“I shall take the Goat Quest,” I declared to no one in particular.
The café lady chuckled. “Daisy’s probably just down by the creek. She does that.”
I bowed low. “Then I shall retrieve her and return her to her rightful place. For the glory of Gribbleton.”
“Just make sure she doesn’t eat your shoelaces. Again.”
I set off at once.
The creek ran just outside the village limits, through a patch of trees and cattails. I tread carefully, imagining a hidden bandit ambush with every rustle of the leaves. But instead, I found Daisy standing in the shallows, happily munching on someone’s discarded sock.
I approached slowly, arms outstretched.
“Easy, holy beast. I am not your enemy.”
Daisy stared at me, then farted. Loudly.
A sign of power. I was undeterred.
After about ten minutes of coaxing, gentle words, and one accidental slip into the mud, I managed to tie a length of rope around her neck and lead her back toward the village. I carried the sock like a trophy.
“You shall return to your mistress, oh Wooly One. The realm shall know peace again.”
We passed a man jogging in earbuds. He looked at me, looked at the goat, and gave a slow thumbs up.
“New guy, huh?”
“Yes,” I said solemnly. “Chosen one.”
“Cool.”
He jogged off. Probably a forest monk.
Back in town, I delivered Daisy to a very grateful old lady named Miss Tilly, who rewarded me with a peppermint and a slice of banana bread.
“This is most gracious,” I said. “May your crops be blessed.”
She patted my arm. “You’re a weird little pudding, aren’t you?”
“Only the Lord knows,” I replied, chewing slowly.
Later that day, Eva found me sitting on a crate outside the bakery, still covered in creek mud, a peppermint stuck to my sleeve.
“Let me guess,” she said, “Daisy quest?”
“Completed. Minimal casualties.”
She laughed and sat beside me. “You’re enjoying this, huh? All of it.”
“I was called,” I said. “A new world. A new life. New purpose.”
Eva looked at me for a moment, quiet. “What if this wasn’t a new world? What if you were just… I don’t know. In the middle of nowhere with people who are too polite to argue with you?”
I grinned. “Then it would be the kindest mistake of my life.”
She seemed surprised at that.
I nudged her shoulder. “But you don’t really think that, do you?”
She hesitated. “Honestly? I don’t know. Sometimes you say things that make me wonder if maybe you’re right. Not because of portals or dragons or… bread prophecies. But because you believe in it. You really believe.”
I looked down at my hands, still smudged with flour and goat hair.
“Maybe,” I said, “believing is enough to make it real.”
Eva stood and dusted off her skirt. “Come on, Breadboy. Ron’s got a whole batch of cinnamon knots waiting, and you know he burns half of them when he’s mad.”
I stood and followed her inside.
Maybe it was fantasy. Maybe it was just rural life and overactive imagination. But either way, I had friends now. A purpose. A calling.
And, most importantly…
A goat-shaped hole in my pants.
Chapter Four: Sourdough Trials and the Butter of BlessingsThe next morning, Ron was in a mood.
I could tell by the way he slammed the flour bin down like it owed him money. He grumbled about “half-baked helpers” and “soggy-bottomed crusts” while furiously scribbling on a notepad labeled Inventory, probably not cursed.
I stood at attention near the prep table, wiping my hands on my apron and trying to look heroic.
“We’ve got a competition,” he finally said, stabbing his pencil at the page like it had insulted his mother. “Local sourdough bake-off.”
I perked up. “A baking tournament? With prizes and honor?”
“With bragging rights and a small gift card,” Eva corrected, coming in behind him with a tray of cooling rolls. “But yes, basically.”
“A rite of fire,” I murmured. “A culinary crucible. A duel of destinies, flour versus flour.”
Ron stopped mid-scribble and slowly turned. “Are you going to keep talking like that the whole day?”
“Yes,” I said.
He sighed like a man who had long since accepted the quirks of fate. “Fine. Then you’re entering.”
I blinked. “Me?”
“Yeah. You. Beginner’s bracket. I signed you up as ‘Loafnir the Bold.’” Ron smirked. “That okay?”
“Master Ron,” I said, voice trembling with emotion, “you do me too much honor.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just try not to light anything on fire.”
Preparation began immediately. The bakery turned into a training ground. I was the student. Ron was the grumpy mentor. Eva was… well, Eva was both amused and secretly invested.
“Sourdough is alive,” Ron told me, setting a bowl of starter in front of me like a newborn. “It breathes. It grows. It can smell fear.”
“It’s a sacred beast,” I said reverently.
He smacked me on the head with a rolling pin. “It’s flour and water, boy. Focus.”
We spent hours mixing, folding, and proofing. I studied the starter like it was a holy relic, even giving it a name—Sir Crumbleton. Eva made me a tiny paper crown to set on the bowl. Ron pretended not to notice, though I swear he chuckled once when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The night before the competition, I knelt beside Sir Crumbleton and said a small prayer over the bowl.
“Lord, I know it’s just bread. But if I win, maybe I can bring honor to this little town. Maybe I can show them Your goodness in something as simple as dough. Amen.”
The starter burbled in agreement.
“Loafnir,” Eva whispered, peeking in the door. “You talking to your bread again?”
“He needs encouragement.”
She stepped inside, her arms crossed and her scarf slightly askew. “You really believe in all this, don’t you?”
“What, that I’m in another world?”
“No, that you were brought here for a reason.”
I looked down at my hands. “I believe God leads people in weird ways. And maybe this isn’t what I imagined. No dragons. No magic scrolls. Just a tiny village and an old baker with a temper problem. But... I’m happy. That’s new
Chapter Five: The Battle of the Rising LoavesMorning came with a vengeance.
The village square was buzzing. Tables were set up beneath strings of mismatched bunting, and villagers milled about, holding coffee mugs and plastic chairs like they were prepping for a county fair—which, to be fair, they sort of were. Except to me, it was a high-stakes baking tournament where honor, destiny, and eternal glory were on the line.
Eva handed me a fresh apron. “You nervous?”
I adjusted my hood dramatically. “A true warrior does not fear flour.”
“You’ll do fine,” she said. “And besides—this is just the beginner’s table. Everyone here’s probably just trying to avoid burning the dough.”
“Or,” I said, eyes narrowing, “one of them is an ancient crust mage in disguise.”
Ron walked past carrying a tray of sample rolls. “If you say ‘crust mage’ again, I’m stuffing you in the proofing drawer.”
I nodded solemnly. “May I rise there, as the loaves do.”
Eva snorted so hard she dropped her clipboard.
Each contestant had their own table, ingredients, and assigned oven. I was sandwiched between an overly enthusiastic teen with a lab coat and safety goggles (“For bread science!”) and an old man who kept muttering, “Back in my day we didn’t measure things. We felt them.”
I bowed to both. “May your kneading be true.”
“Eh?” the old man said.
The whistle blew, and we were off.
I approached my bowl like it was a summoning circle. Sir Crumbleton was ready—bubbly, pungent, and noble in spirit. I fed him warm water, the finest flour we had, and whispered a brief Psalm just for good measure.
“You bless us with daily bread,” I muttered. “But also bless this particular bread. Amen.”
The dough took shape beneath my hands, soft but firm, like destiny wrapped in gluten. I folded it with reverence. I shaped it like a man crafting a legacy. I added rosemary, a dash of cracked pepper, and—at Eva’s earlier suggestion—a swirl of honey for contrast.
Across the table, the teen had produced a kitchen thermometer and a stopwatch.
“Amateur,” I whispered.
As the loaves proofed under damp cloths, the judges—four older women from the church bake sale committee—circulated with clipboards and expressions of absolute authority. One of them gave me a curious look when she spotted my soda-can belt relic.
“Is that... Mountain Zing?”
I stood straight. “A treasure from the ruins.”
She raised an eyebrow, scribbled something, and moved on.
Baking time.
This was it.
I slid my loaf into the oven like a knight offering up his sword to the forge. My hands were shaking. Not from fear—but from anticipation. The moment of truth would be golden brown, or it would be my shame forever.
Eva appeared at my elbow just as I was pacing for the fifth time.
“Want to breathe into a paper bag?”
“I need no bag,” I said. “Only faith.”
“Well... have both.” She handed me a crumpled napkin. “It’s got a Bible verse on it. Thought you’d like it.”
I opened it.
“Whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.” —1 Corinthians 10:31I smiled. “Amen.”
When the loaves were done, we laid them out for judging. My rosemary-honey creation looked glorious. The crust shone, the shape was symmetrical, and—most importantly—it smelled like anointed carbohydrates.
One judge sliced it with surgical precision and took a bite.
She chewed.
Her eyes widened.
Another bite.
Then she nodded, slowly. “That’s... really good.”
I nearly fainted.
When the results came in, I didn’t win first place. That went to the old man who “felt” the dough and added bacon bits because “that’s what the good Lord would’ve wanted.”
But I took second.
SECOND.
They handed me a certificate with my name—Loafnir the Bold—and a ribbon shaped like a baguette.
Eva hugged me without warning. “I’m proud of you, you giant dork.”
I froze for a second, then hugged her back. “I dedicate this victory to the Lord, Sir Crumbleton, and your excellent napkin ministry.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet... slightly victorious.”
That evening, we celebrated with ice cream sandwiches and leftover rolls. Ron actually smiled—once—and told me I “didn’t embarrass the shop, at least.”
Mama Gert taped my ribbon to the kitchen wall.
“You’re one strange blessing, boy,” she said. “But I think you’re starting to fit in.”
I looked around at the simple house, the warm light of the lanterns, and the pile of bread rolls cooling by the window.
Maybe, I thought, this world doesn’t need a hero. Just a guy willing to bake with all his heart.
And maybe—just maybe—this was exactly the place I was meant to be.
Chapter Six: Of Aprons and AffectionsThe next few days passed in a blur of dough, flour, and mildly controlled chaos. Ever since my second-place finish in the bake-off, I’d been hailed in town as “that fella with the herb bread” or “Sir Loaf.” One child even drew me with a cape made of braided challah. I pinned it to my wall with pride.
But today... today was different.
Because today, Ron handed me a new apron.
Not just any apron.
This one was dark green, made of thick canvas, and had the bakery’s name—Gert’s Daily Bread—stitched in gold thread across the front. It wasn’t flashy. But it was clean. Sharp. Official.
“You’ve earned it,” he grunted, tossing it my way like a reluctant compliment.
I caught it like it was made of glass. “Master Ron... is this a symbol of guild acceptance?”
“No,” he said. “It’s a symbol of ‘stop ruining my good aprons with goat fur and jam smears.’”
“A sacred relic,” I whispered.
Eva peered around the doorframe with a mischievous grin. “He cried a little, Ron.”
“I did not cry,” I said, tightening the apron with heroic flair. “I merely... watered the bread spirit in my chest.”
Ron walked away muttering about “flour fumes poisoning his ears.”
The bakery was busy that morning. A school group was coming through town on a “country life” field trip, and someone—probably Eva—volunteered us to let the kids tour the shop and decorate their own cookies.
“Children are the future,” she said brightly.
“Children are agents of dough-based destruction,” I said less brightly.
Still, we prepped a few batches of sugar cookies, colored icing, and sprinkles that looked suspiciously like edible glitter bombs. When the kids arrived—twelve of them, aged somewhere between feral and angelic—chaos bloomed like yeast on a warm counter.
One little girl tugged on my sleeve. “Are you a real knight?”
I knelt before her. “I am Loafnir the Bold. Second-place finisher of the Great Sourdough Trials.”
She blinked. “What’s ‘trials’ mean?”
“It means I didn’t lose as badly as the others.”
She seemed satisfied with that answer and handed me a cookie shaped like a duck.
“This one’s for you.”
I gasped. “A peace offering from the tiny warriors.”
She beamed. “It’s got peanut butter and ketchup on it.”
I nodded solemnly. “A taste... for the brave.”
Ron nearly had a heart attack watching me eat it. But I did. And I survived. Mostly.
After the kids left and the glitter settled, Eva collapsed into a chair beside me and let out a long sigh.
“That was exhausting.”
“Like surviving a goblin siege,” I said, sipping lukewarm tea.
“You’re not wrong.”
I looked over at her, hair messy, sleeves dusted with powdered sugar, and that ever-present flour smudge on her cheek.
“You’re... really good with them,” I said.
She shrugged. “Kids aren’t so different from bread. They rise better when you treat them warm.”
“That,” I said slowly, “might be the most profound thing I’ve ever heard.”
She blushed faintly and turned her eyes to the window. “You’re full of weird little compliments, you know.”
“They’re not weird. They’re... poetic truth crumbs.”
“Now that’s weird.”
We walked home together that evening.
It had become a kind of habit. Even though she lived on the other side of the village near the orchard path, she always stopped by Gert’s house with me first, usually claiming she needed to “borrow jam” or “make sure I didn’t fall into the flour bin again.”
I didn’t question it.
We walked slowly, the sky above us soft with dusk light and a breeze carrying the scent of woodsmoke and clover. Birds chirped. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. Someone nearby was grilling sausages. I took a deep breath and smiled.
“I could get used to this,” I said.
“Used to what?”
“This life. The slowness. The warmth. The smallness.”
She nodded. “I think that’s why a lot of folks stay. It’s not flashy. But it’s real.”
We passed the chapel near the square. Its bell tower stood quiet for now, but its door was propped open and someone inside was softly playing piano. A hymn. One I knew well.
I stopped to listen.
Eva glanced at me. “You okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Just... reminds me of home.”
“Was home not like this?”
“Not even a little,” I said, smiling faintly. “Home was a studio apartment with a sink that never drained and a neighbor who practiced screaming into jars.”
“Sounds... unique.”
“But I still miss it. Just a little.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Maybe this can be home now.”
I looked at her. “Wouldn’t mind that. Especially if you were part of it.”
She blinked. “That a line, Loafnir?”
“Maybe. But it’s also true.”
We stood there for a second, the hymn continuing softly in the background, the breeze still gently stirring.
Then she punched me lightly on the arm. “Don’t go falling for me just because I make good jam.”
“Too late.”
She didn’t say anything else, but her smile stayed all the way to Gert’s front gate.
That night, I stared up at the ceiling again, Sir Crumbleton now relegated to the corner shelf like a retired hero. The new apron hung on the door. And the cookie duck with peanut butter ketchup rested beside my bed in a place of honor.
“I’m not sure what You’re doing, God,” I whispered, “but... I’m starting to think this was no accident. Thanks for wherever this is. And whoever You’ve put in it.”
I paused.
“And please... don’t let Ron catch me baking without a measuring cup again. Amen.”
I fell asleep smiling.
Chapter Seven: The Cheese Nip Box and the Storm That Wasn’tIt started with a bang.
Not thunder, exactly. More like someone dropped a metal trash can off the bakery roof and then blamed it on the weather. I sat bolt upright in bed, straw in my hoodie, heart pounding like a bread mixer on high speed.
Mama Gert’s voice came through the wall: “It’s just wind, boy! Don’t go acting like the world’s ending!”
I crawled to the window and peeked through the curtain. The trees were doing their best impression of interpretive dancers, and the chickens were huddled together under the lean-to, looking personally offended by the sky.
I got dressed in record time—shirt, hoodie, boots—and dashed out the front door like I was late to a chili cook-off. Gert was already outside, swatting at a loose tarp with a broom and wearing her old raincoat that smelled like pickles and pine tar.
“Hold this down, Loafnir!” she hollered, handing me a corner of the tarp. “Unless you want it flying off and covering the pastor’s window again.”
“That only happened once,” I reminded her, gripping the edge with both hands.
“He still sends me looks when I pass him in the grocery.”
“I thought that was just because you keep beating him at checkers.”
“That too.”
Once the tarp was secured (mostly), we moved on to the chickens. Now, most people think chickens are simple creatures. I disagree. Chickens are chaos given feathers. One of them, a speckled one named Jolene, had escaped and was strutting up the road like she had errands.
I gave chase.
It wasn’t heroic. I slipped in the mud, tripped over a hose, and got slapped in the face by a branch on the way down. But I got her. Mostly by surprising her with an empty Cheese Nip box.
“I come bearing snacks,” I said.
She paused. Stared. Then hopped into the box.
Gert squinted at me from the porch. “You use my Cheese Nips to catch a chicken?”
“She respects cheddar-based authority.”
“She was probably offended by the knockoff brand.”
“Okay, first of all,” I said, carrying Jolene back, “the box was extremely handy, being close by. Second, that box just saved us ten minutes of flapping panic.”
“She’s lucky she’s got nice feathers.”
Later that day, the rain turned into a drizzle and the village seemed to exhale. I headed into town to help Ron at the bakery, where he greeted me with his usual warmth:
“You smell like pond water.”
“It’s Eau de Destiny.”
“Smells like mildew.”
Ron had spent the morning baking cinnamon pull-aparts and was trying to repair a rolling cart that was leaning like it had trust issues. Eva was behind the counter, wearing a fresh apron and singing softly to herself—some hymn about morning mercies and butter. Or maybe I just imagined the butter part.
I joined her, grabbing a tray of still-warm scones.
“You survived the storm,” she said without looking up.
“Barely. I was almost blown into the pastor’s begonias.”
“Again?”
“I think they have it out for me.”
She smiled, passing me a spoonful of jam. “Taste this.”
I did. I closed my eyes and let the flavor hit me.
“That,” I whispered, “tastes like sunrise in a polite town with zero cell service.”
“Exactly what I was going for.”
Ron grumbled from the kitchen, “If you two are done romancing the preserves, I need help restocking the display.”
That afternoon, the sky cleared up completely. The sun came out. The chickens returned to their usual dignified pecking. I helped sweep the bakery porch, which was coated in wet leaves, and stacked a few logs near Gert’s for her wood stove.
I sat down on a stump out front as Eva walked by, headed home with a basket of leftover rolls.
“You look thoughtful,” she said.
“I was just thinking,” I replied. “This place is simple. Peaceful. Honest.”
“And?”
“And I think maybe... I was supposed to end up here.”
She tilted her head. “You mean like... fate?”
“Maybe not fate. Maybe more like... grace. Like God dropped me in the middle of nowhere so I could finally stop running.”
She looked at me for a long second. Then she smiled. “For a guy who talks to chickens with snack boxes, you’re not so bad at being deep.”
“I contain layers. Like onion bread.”
“Or emotional lasagna.”
“I’d eat that.”
“I bet you would.”
That night, I added a new page to my journal: THE STORM ARC – Survived. Discovered cheese-based chicken diplomacy. Learned I might actually belong here.
And for the first time since I arrived in Gribbleton, I didn’t feel like someone pretending to be in another world.
I felt like someone who’d been quietly adopted by it.
Chapter Eight: Of Ladders, Lanterns, and the Girl with the ApronI didn’t wake up to roosters.
No, this morning I woke up to the sound of hammering. Rhythmic, determined hammering, like someone was trying to build a small ark on the porch. I rolled out of bed, stumbled toward the window, and saw Gert standing on a wobbly wooden ladder, swinging a hammer at the side of the roof with enough confidence to make OSHA weep.
I threw the door open. “You’re going to fall and take the gutter with you!”
She looked down at me like I was the crazy one. “It’s just the loose bit over the porch. Storm shook it loose. Grab that bucket of nails and quit gawking!”
I grabbed the nails. I also grabbed the ladder.
“There are better ways to die, you know.”
“This is not how I go,” she muttered, whacking the nail with surprising precision for someone wearing fuzzy slippers.
After five minutes of me holding the ladder and her delivering hammer-judgment upon some poor bits of wood, the gutter was secure, and I was handed a pancake with a “thank you” mumbled into my ear.
“Made extra,” she said. “Even tossed in cinnamon. Go take one to your girlfriend.”
I blinked. “Eva?”
“No, the hen you caught in a Cheese Nip box. Yes, Eva.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Not yet,” Gert said, turning on her heel and heading inside. “But give it time.”
Armed with a plate of cinnamon pancakes and mild confusion, I made my way toward the bakery. The village was peaceful again after the storm—sunlight on puddles, kids hopping over cracks in the road, and old folks bringing out lawn chairs like it was a social event.
Eva was already outside the shop, sweeping the front step. Her hair was pulled up today, tied with the same blue ribbon she always wore. She looked up as I approached and grinned.
“Delivering breakfast?”
I held up the plate. “With a side of gutter-related trauma.”
She took a bite without hesitation and gave an approving nod. “Gert always puts too much cinnamon, but somehow it works.”
“Too much cinnamon is how you know someone loves you.”
She gave me a long look, then shrugged. “Then I must be absolutely adored.”
“I can confirm.”
We sat on the step and split the pancakes, warm sunlight pooling around us like syrup. The village moved gently around us—bikes squeaked past, the church bell rang once on the hour, and a woman nearby hung laundry while singing “I’ll Fly Away” off-key.
“I think this is the most peaceful I’ve ever been,” I said, licking a bit of syrup off my thumb.
“You’re not bored?” Eva asked. “Not even a little?”
“Not even a crumb.”
She smiled, but I caught a flicker of something behind her eyes. Doubt? Worry? Something small and quiet.
“Do you ever miss where you came from?” she asked.
I paused.
“I miss… noise, I guess. And vending machines. And the smell of fresh plastic when you open something new. But none of that felt real. It was just passing time.”
“And this feels real?”
I looked at her. “This is bread. That was cardboard.”
She laughed. “That makes no sense, and yet I think I get it.”
Inside the shop, Ron was busy testing a new recipe he called Peanut Butter Surprise Bars. The surprise was apparently raisins. I suggested calling them Mild Disappointment Squares, and he threw a spoon at me.
Eva spent most of the morning prepping orders for the weekend—a wedding, a small church potluck, and something labeled Ms. Dolly’s Fudge Cake of Doom, which Ron insisted must be baked under supervision because “last time it smoked like a tire fire.”
Meanwhile, I worked in the back room shaping loaves, singing softly to myself.
I heard a thump, then Eva’s voice behind me.
“You’re really getting the hang of it.”
“Only took me two dozen failed attempts and one very smoky afternoon.”
She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
“I don’t know how to.”
“That could be dangerous,” she said, nudging my arm with her elbow. “Some people get all-in just to find out the table wasn’t real.”
I frowned. “Is this... about me?”
“Sort of.” She picked up a dough ball and started shaping it beside me. “You dive into things so hard—this town, the baking, the people—like you’re trying to rewrite yourself.”
I was quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “What if I am?”
She stopped shaping the dough.
I continued, “What if the person I was before... didn’t really fit anywhere? What if this is the first time I’ve ever felt like I’m part of something? Not on the sidelines. Not watching life go by. Just... here. With my hands in something that matters.”
She didn’t respond right away. But then she nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “That... I get.”
Later that afternoon, after deliveries and cleanup, I walked Eva home. We passed the orchard, where bees hummed and the apples were starting to blush red. She carried a basket of leftovers for her aunt, who lived just beyond the hill.
“You think you’ll stay?” she asked suddenly.
I didn’t even need to think. “I want to.”
“You’re not worried the novelty will wear off?”
“Novelty doesn’t make you feel like this.”
She stopped walking, looking at the orchard trees.
“Loafnir,” she said. “You’re kind of like this place. Unexpected. A little out of time. But... good. Like, wholesome good.”
“You forgot charming and weirdly athletic when being chased by poultry.”
She laughed. “Yes. That too.”
When I got back to Gert’s, she was sitting on the porch with a quilt and a jar of pickles, watching the sunset.
“You look like a man who forgot to buy milk,” she said.
“Just thinking.”
“About the girl?”
“Maybe.”
“About life?”
“Probably.”
She nodded. “It’s good to think. But remember to live, too.”
“I’m trying.”
“Well,” she said, taking a pickle from the jar. “You’re doing alright.”
That night, I scribbled one more line in my journal before bed:
Day something-or-other: I didn’t find treasure or a hidden ruin. But I found a new apron, a really good pancake, and someone who sees me. That’s a kind of miracle.
And as I turned out the lamp and listened to the quiet hum of Gert’s house settling in for the night, I smiled.
Because even though I still believed I was somewhere else—somewhere distant and magical—I also knew this place, this little village... was beginning to feel like home.
Chapter Nine: The Royal Bread Council and Other Wild Ideas“You ever consider running for town council?”
That’s what Ron asked me, completely serious, while we were elbow-deep in rising dough and the radio hummed old gospel tunes in the background.
I blinked. “Town council?”
“Yup.”
“Me?”
“You.”
I wiped flour off my forehead. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Well, you’re loud, weird, persistent, and somehow everybody likes you. That’s pretty much the job.”
I turned to Eva, who was arranging croissants in a basket like it was a competitive art.
“Am I council material?”
She didn’t even look up. “You think birds are dragons.”
“They could be if they committed.”
“You once said the library was a ‘wisdom temple.’”
“It is.”
“And you cried when Gert gave you the last Cheese Nip.”
“That was a moment of profound human connection.”
Eva smirked. “Yeah, you’re perfect.”
By lunch, the whole bakery had unofficially turned into a debate center. Ron pretended to moderate. Eva took notes on a napkin. I stood in front of the bread rack, trying to deliver an inspiring speech with a scone in one hand and my apron on crooked.
“My fellow villagers,” I began, “if elected, I vow to install more benches, protect the dignity of the chickens, and outlaw raisins in anything pretending to be dessert.”
Ron nodded solemnly. “I support that motion.”
Eva added, “And what about your foreign policy?”
“I propose a trade alliance with the orchard,” I said. “Apples for pastries. Peace through pie.”
Someone clapped in the hallway. We paused and turned. It was Ms. Dolly, from the fudge cake order. She peeked in, wearing her signature pink sweater and roller curlers.
“You running for council, sugar?”
“...Possibly.”
“Put me down as a maybe. Depends on your stance on leash laws. That goat from the next street keeps eating my azaleas.”
“I shall investigate this rogue goat personally.”
She nodded, then rolled away like a boss-level grandma.
That afternoon, Eva and I took a delivery of raisin bread (against my will) to the little bookshop near the post office. It was run by a soft-spoken man named Mr. Silas who wore cardigans year-round and always smelled like cinnamon and ink.
As we walked, I kept glancing at the chalkboard sign out front.
Today’s quote read:
“To be content with what you have is great gain.” – 1 Timothy 6:6I stopped and stared at it for a second.
Eva noticed. “That verse hit you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s just... a lot lately.”
“You okay?”
I thought for a moment. “I used to want so much. To go somewhere exciting, be someone important. And now I’m here, and it’s quiet, and I have flour on everything I own. But I feel... full.”
“Like a well-fed cinnamon roll?”
“Exactly.”
She bumped my arm with hers. “It suits you.”
“Thanks.”
Back at the shop, Ron had somehow started a dough-rolling contest between two local teens. It had escalated into a full-on flour war by the time we got back. One boy had a dab of icing on his ear and a serious look in his eye.
“Victory is close!” he shouted.
“I believe in you!” I yelled back, tossing him a spatula like it was a sword.
Eva shook her head. “What is happening in here?”
“Democracy,” Ron said.
After cleanup—and an hour of sneezing flour—I found a note taped to my locker. It was written in all caps and glitter pen:
YOU GOT OUR VOTE, LOAF KING!Below it was a small loaf of bread with a sticker that said “BREAD FOR MAYOR.”
I turned to Eva. “If I were actually elected, what do you think I should do?”
“First? Institute a limit on how many times you can call something ‘divine pastry armor.’”
“Even the buttered buns?”
“Especially the buttered buns.”
That night at Gert’s, we sat on the porch again. She was darning socks. I was whittling something that vaguely resembled a goose, but may have looked more like a blobfish.
She glanced over. “You’re grinning like a possum in a melon patch.”
“People think I should run for council.”
“You’re gonna try to rule this village one croissant at a time, huh?”
“Or unite it over shared jam preferences.”
She chuckled. “Long as you remember who gave you your first apron.”
“I’ll make you head of agriculture.”
“I already am. I grow the tomatoes and keep Ron’s ego in check.”
Before bed, I wrote in my journal again:
Day 22 (I think):And with that, I went to bed with the kind of peaceful smile you only get from purpose, pancakes, and people who don’t mind when you monologue to bread.
Please log in to leave a comment.