Chapter 2:
Isekai'ed (Eventually)
It was the Cheese Nips.
That’s what started the doubt.
I sat on Gert’s porch early that morning, munching from the same bright-orange box I’d used to lure Jolene the Chicken a few chapters ago. But for the first time, I really looked at it. The font. The barcode. The “Now With 15% More Crunch!” banner that I remembered seeing back when I lived in a city apartment above a nail salon that played polka music on loop.
“How,” I murmured, “do Cheese Nips exist in another world?”
The packaging was unmistakably modern. Manufactured in Ohio. Little recycling icon and everything.
I tapped the box thoughtfully against my knee. Maybe it had fallen through a portal with me. Maybe someone in this “world” had a gift for making eerily accurate replicas. Or maybe...
I stood up suddenly. “No. No way.”
But the doubt was planted. It sat like an extra raisin in a cinnamon bun—unwanted and suspicious.
I shoved the box behind a flowerpot and changed the subject in my head.
By mid-morning, the bakery was hosting its second town hall meeting—completely unofficial and completely chaotic. Turns out, half the village thought me running for council was hilarious, and the other half thought it might be a fun change of pace from old man Burkle, who once tried to ban car alarms because he thought they were “electronic demons.”
Eva had turned the bakery chalkboard into a tally sheet with lines like:
Pro-Loaf Votes: 14
Unsure/Confused: 9
Still Mad About Raisin Ban: 2
Ron was making scones and muttering about how he hadn’t asked for any of this. “I let you take one bake-off ribbon and suddenly you’re Napoleon of the Pastry.”
“I am not here to conquer,” I said, hands raised. “Only to serve.”
Eva, sitting on the counter, rolled her eyes. “You have a campaign speech ready?”
I nodded. “Wrote it in jam last night. On toast.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
She didn’t deny it.
As the bakery filled with curious townsfolk and one man who just came for free samples, I took a breath and stepped forward to deliver my big speech.
“Good people of Gribbleton,” I began, standing next to the sourdough display. “I am not from here—”
“Yeah, we noticed,” someone muttered.
“—but I love this place. I love your weird chickens, your slightly tilted library, and your commitment to butter as a food group.”
Scattered laughter.
“I may not have the most experience. I may still call the town square ‘the central gathering of judgment and festivity.’ But I promise to serve with honor, honesty, and an aggressive stance on raisin labeling transparency.”
A cheer. A real one.
I smiled.
And then... my eyes wandered to the window.
A van rolled by.
Not a horse-drawn cart. Not a mossy wagon with potion bottles clinking in the back.
A plain old white van. Covered in mud, sure, but clearly marked with “Smitty’s Plumbing & Septic.”
I froze.
Eva saw me staring. “You okay?”
I blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, just thinking.”
She gave me a curious look but didn’t push it.
By afternoon, things had mostly calmed down. No formal vote was taken—it wasn’t even an official election year—but I was now considered the unofficial voice of baked goods and street complaints.
Ron dubbed me the “Loaf King” and made me wear a crown made of croissant ends. Eva insisted I add “acting representative” to my apron with a Sharpie.
I added “Acting Representative of Raisin-Free Progress.”
That evening, Eva and I walked the long way home, past the creek and the old sawmill. She was quiet for a while, then finally said:
“You’ve been... off today.”
“Just a little tired.”
“That’s not it. Something’s on your mind.”
I hesitated. Then said, “Eva, what if... what if this isn’t what I thought it was?”
She looked at me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean... I found a Cheese Nip box this morning. An actual, honest-to-goodness Cheese Nip box. And I saw a plumbing van drive by earlier.”
She nodded slowly. “So?”
“So... that’s Earth stuff. Not ‘mystical other realm’ stuff.”
Eva was quiet. Then she said, “Loafnir... did you really think you were in another world?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
Finally: “I don’t know.”
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t tease. She just walked beside me, quietly, until we reached the hill overlooking the village.
“You know,” she said finally, “maybe it doesn’t matter.”
I looked at her. “Doesn’t it?”
“I mean... you’re here. You’re doing good. You’re helping people. Who cares if this place has Cheese Nips and indoor plumbing? Maybe the world you were looking for wasn’t some fantasy land. Maybe it was a small town with a bakery, a wisecracking girl, and a whole lot of chickens.”
I didn’t say anything.
But I smiled.
That night, I left the Cheese Nip box where it was.
Let it sit there behind the flowerpot, dusty and slightly soggy from morning dew. Proof that maybe things weren’t what I thought—but still exactly what I needed.
And in my journal, I wrote:
Day 23 (or so):“Loafnir! There’s a possum in the donation bin!”
I dropped my toast, grabbed a broom, and charged outside like a knight summoned to defend his homeland. The donation bin in question sat outside the chapel’s thrift shop and had recently become a kind of magical community portal—people dropped off odd items, and someone else always claimed them with a casual “Oh, I’ve been looking for one of these.” It was equal parts charity, storage closet, and mystery box.
This morning, however, it was home to a possum.
Eva stood nearby, arms crossed and holding a scone in one hand like it doubled as a weapon. “He blinked at me,” she said.
“They always do,” I replied.
I crept forward, broom ready, and peered into the bin. Sure enough, a round, fuzzy possum sat comfortably among some cardigans and a faded beach towel, staring at me like I’d interrupted something important.
I offered him a bribe—a half-eaten slice of peach tart from my pocket.
He blinked again. Took the tart. And slowly waddled out like a diplomat leaving a tense negotiation.
“Handled,” I declared.
Eva clapped lightly. “You may now return to your loaf kingdom, O possum whisperer.”
With the possum departed and dignity partially restored, I gave the bin one final inspection—partly to ensure no other freeloading wildlife had taken up residence, and partly because the thrift bin had always fascinated me. You never knew what you’d find.
And that’s when I saw it.
A hoodie. Not just any hoodie. My hoodie. Black, soft, familiar. Slightly torn at the left pocket from a sparkler incident on a poorly supervised Fourth of July. The kind of detail you don’t forget.
I pulled it out slowly. It still had that faint scent of modern detergent—the kind I used to buy from the corner store that also sold lottery tickets and hot pickles in jars.
“Eva,” I said quietly, “this is mine.”
She looked up from reorganizing the bin. “Like... yours from before you got here?”
I nodded. “From the... other world.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You mean Earth?”
I frowned. “That’s the question now, isn’t it?”
We sat on the steps of the thrift shop, me holding the hoodie in my lap like it was something fragile, like it might fall apart if I blinked too hard. I turned the sleeve over, finding the old Wesley State logo half-peeled off. That college. That year I never finished. That me.
“Maybe I didn’t fall into a magical realm,” I muttered. “Maybe I just... wandered here. Like someone dropped me off and didn’t leave a note.”
Eva was quiet for a while. Then, gently, “You really believed you weren’t on Earth?”
“I did,” I said. “At first, it made everything easier. Like I’d been given a fresh start by the universe. Like I had permission to be someone better.”
She tilted her head. “And now that you think this is Earth?”
I shrugged. “Now I wonder if I just... snapped a little and ran away to a town without billboards.”
There was a pause. A breeze passed by. A few pages of an old church bulletin fluttered across the sidewalk.
“But,” I added, “even if I was wrong... I don’t want to leave.”
Eva smiled faintly. “Good. Because I was going to tackle you if you tried.”
We returned to the bakery just before lunch, where Ron took one look at the hoodie and snorted.
“That thing still alive?”
“It found its way home.”
“Probably following the smell of your last three nervous breakdowns.”
“Sentimental,” I said, draping it on the back of a chair. “Also, it still smells like possum.”
“Adds character.”
Eva passed behind me with a tray of lemon bars and whispered, “Put it on. You’ll feel like you again.”
“I don’t know who that is yet.”
“You will.”
That afternoon, I walked Gert’s dog, Buttons, who was actually a small, round mop with eyes. The air was crisp, and a few yellow leaves had started falling, fluttering down onto the dirt roads like slow confetti.
As Buttons sniffed everything from fence posts to a stack of firewood, I found myself thinking not just about where I came from, but about who I’d been there. Tired. Disconnected. Working too many jobs to afford too little apartment. Waiting for something to happen.
Here, things happened. Even if they were just possums and lemon bars and bakery debates over which muffin was holiest.
I suddenly remembered a voicemail from my old job I never returned. A dentist office gig that paid by the hour and smelled like plastic mouthguards. I hadn’t missed it once.
Maybe that meant something.
That evening, I wandered into the chapel.
It was quiet inside, just like always. A few pews, a wooden cross, the faint smell of wax and old paper. I sat on the very last bench, the hoodie folded beside me like a guest I hadn’t seen in years.
I whispered into the silence: “God, I don’t know why You let me end up here. I don’t know if I was supposed to escape, or if I just tripped over grace by accident. But this place... these people... they feel like home. Even if the map still says Earth.”
I glanced at the hoodie.
“And if You don’t mind... I think I’d like to stay a while longer.”
That night, after a supper of baked beans and cornbread (Gert’s answer to every emotional dilemma), I sat in bed with my journal.
Day 24-ish:I placed the hoodie gently at the foot of my bed.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt whole.
Chapter Twelve: Bread Diplomacy and the Department of DucksThe trouble began with the ducks.
It always does, somehow.
I was restocking the front pastry case—lining up croissants like little buttery soldiers—when I heard the door slam open and a kid shout, “The ducks are blocking Main Street!”
Now, to most people, this would sound like the start of a joke. Here in Gribbleton, it was a very real logistical problem.
Ron didn’t even flinch. “Again?”
Eva popped her head out of the back kitchen, face dusted in powdered sugar. “How many this time?”
The kid, panting like he’d run the whole way, held up two fingers. “Two dozen!”
I stood, wiping my hands on my apron. “I shall handle this.”
“Loafnir,” Ron said, dead serious, “do not provoke the ducks.”
“I am a diplomat now,” I assured him. “This falls under my jurisdiction.”
Eva muttered, “We need to stop letting you write your own job description.”
I arrived on Main Street just in time to see the chaos.
Twenty-four ducks, give or take a few freeloading geese, were gathered like feathery revolutionaries in the center of the road. Two old ladies had parked their lawn chairs on the curb and were spectating with ice cream cones. One of them waved at me.
“Afternoon, dear! Loaf King gonna negotiate again?”
I nodded solemnly. “That is my intent.”
The ducks stared at me.
I stared back.
I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out the leftover scraps of scone I had saved from breakfast. Slowly, deliberately, I crumbled the pieces on the grass beside the sidewalk and took a step back.
The lead duck—big guy, green head, walked like he had back problems—quacked once, waddled forward, and began to snack.
Within seconds, the whole flock followed.
Crisis averted.
By the time I returned to the bakery, I had a small feather stuck to my sleeve and the pride of a man who had brought peace with carbohydrates.
Ron handed me a cinnamon roll. “Your reward.”
I took a bite. “Tastes like diplomacy.”
Eva passed by carrying a tray. “You know, at this point, we should just put a ‘Duck Watch’ board on the wall next to the specials.”
“Do we have enough chalk for that?”
“Not even close.”
Later that day, while cleaning out the cupboard under the sink (which had become a sort of communal hiding place for mysterious bags of flour), I found a small cardboard box labeled Town Stuff - Old.
Naturally, I opened it.
Inside were faded flyers, laminated maps of the village from twenty years ago, and—most interestingly—a small plastic badge with a crooked label that read: “Temporary Gribbleton Department of Public Harmony.”
I held it up. “Ron. What is this?”
He peeked over from the register. “Oh, that’s from the year everyone started fighting over where to put the Fourth of July picnic. So they invented a fake department to ‘mediate the chaos.’ Didn’t work.”
I pinned it to my apron. “I am now the head of Public Harmony.”
Eva walked in and immediately turned around. “Nope. Not doing this today.”
After lunch, I walked with Eva down to the post office to deliver a package to Ms. Dolly. It was a box of lemon shortbread bars, hand-tied with string, with a note I’d written that said “From your favorite spiritual bakery.”
“I think that makes us sound like we offer sermons with muffins,” Eva said, balancing the box on her hip.
“Well, don’t we?”
She rolled her eyes. “Do you offer sermons?”
“I give the bread motivational speeches.”
“That... actually tracks.”
On the way back, we stopped at the bridge overlooking the creek. It wasn’t much—just a little wooden crossing with two flower boxes and a very judgmental crow that always sat on the left railing.
We leaned against the rail and watched the water trickle by.
“You’ve changed, you know,” Eva said.
I looked at her. “For better?”
She nodded. “You used to be all... eyes in the clouds. Like you were trying to see something no one else could.”
“And now?”
“Now you look like someone who sees here.”
That settled deep in my chest. I didn’t say anything for a while.
Then: “You know, I’m starting to wonder if this whole 'Isekai' idea was just me trying to explain why I didn’t belong back then.”
Eva smiled softly. “Maybe you didn’t need a new world. Maybe you just needed new roots.”
That night, I sat on Gert’s porch with a mug of lukewarm tea, watching fireflies blink in and out like lazy stars. She joined me with a book in hand, sat down with a groan, and gave me a side glance.
“Heard you saved the town from duck anarchy again.”
“They were surprisingly open to negotiation.”
She sipped her tea. “You’re good with the town, you know. Good for it.”
“I don’t know how I ended up here.”
She nodded. “Maybe you were sent.”
“Or maybe I just wandered.”
“Either way,” she said, “you’re here. That’s what matters.”
Before bed, I added a page to my journal:
Day 25 (officially unofficial):And for once, I didn’t dream of dragons.
I dreamed of ducks.
Chapter Thirteen: The Elven Encounter and the Haircut of DestinyThere comes a time in every man’s life when he must accept the inevitable.
For me, it was a haircut.
“You’re starting to look like a mop that gave up on its dreams,” Eva told me over breakfast.
“I’m cultivating a windswept hero aesthetic.”
“You look like you lost a fight with a bread machine.”
Even Gert chimed in. “You’re starting to frighten the hens.”
And so, with great reluctance, I agreed to visit Snip ‘n Sip, the local hair salon-slash-tea room—a combination I still wasn’t sure was entirely legal.
Eva came with me “for moral support,” which was code for “so you don’t chicken out halfway through.”
The salon smelled like lavender and determination. The front area was filled with teacups, cookies, and a bulletin board covered in flyers for lost cats and Bible study schedules. Beyond that, a few reclining chairs sat like thrones, framed by tall mirrors and baskets of hair clips.
We were greeted by Maureen, the town’s legendary beautician. She was tall, sharp-eyed, and could curl your hair and your soul in the same visit.
“Well, well,” she said, inspecting me like a farmer with a suspicious turnip. “Eva brought me a stray.”
“Hello,” I said weakly. “Please be gentle.”
“No promises.”
She led me to the chair and wrapped a floral cape around me like a magician preparing a trick.
And then, she called out: “JULIA! You’re up!”
And that’s when I saw her.
From the back hallway emerged a woman with flowing dark hair, pale skin, and ears—long, slightly pointed ears.
I froze.
My brain short-circuited.
Elf.
She had to be an elf.
No one on Earth had ears like that. They curved delicately upward. Graceful. Magical.
Eva saw my face and leaned in. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”
“But—”
“She’s Maureen’s sister. She was born that way. Don’t ruin this for me, Loafnir.”
I nodded slowly. “Noted.”
But inside, the wheels were turning. An elf. In a hair salon. On Main Street.
My Isekai senses tingled.
Julia didn’t speak much—just hummed as she trimmed and snipped with surprising care. Her movements were smooth, almost ritualistic. She wore a pendant with a strange spiral symbol on it, which I was pretty sure meant something in Elvish. Or yoga. One of those.
When she brushed my shoulders at the end, I half-expected to be blessed with +5 Charisma.
Instead, she smiled and said, “All done. You look very... refreshed.”
I stared. “Do you grant enchanted haircuts to all travelers, or just chosen ones?”
She blinked. “I used dry shampoo.”
“Right. Same thing.”
Afterward, Eva and I walked slowly back to the bakery.
“Okay,” I said, hands in my hoodie pockets. “Real talk.”
“Oh boy.”
“That was an elf.”
“She’s a person.”
“Who might be half-elf.”
“She’s just Maureen’s sister.”
“With ethereal bone structure.”
Eva stopped walking. “You do know elves aren’t real, right?”
“Do you know that for sure?”
She sighed, but I caught the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe I’m just... still figuring things out.”
Eva’s voice softened. “Still unsure if you’re on Earth?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean... there’s a Cheese Nip box, plumbing vans, and yet—elves? Who gives magical haircuts? How do I explain that?”
Eva shrugged. “Maybe you don’t have to explain it. Maybe it’s enough to just... live in it.”
Back at the bakery, Ron stared at me for a solid five seconds.
“You got your ears lowered,” he said flatly.
“By an elf,” I replied.
“I’m not doing this.”
“You never do.”
He tossed me a fresh cinnamon muffin. “Here. You look too aerodynamic now. Eat something dense before you float off.”
That night, after sweeping up a flour spill and helping Gert dig a rogue potato out of the pantry floor (long story), I sat on the porch with my journal again.
Day 26 (maybe):I looked up at the stars. Somewhere, far off, an owl hooted.
I didn’t know where I was.
But I did know this:
I’d never had a better haircut.
Chapter Fourteen: The Pumpkin, the Pastor, and the Prophecy That Wasn’tHarvest season hit Gribbleton like a pie to the face—warm, sticky, and full of good intentions.
Pumpkins appeared on every porch. Gourds were tucked into windowsills. Someone even decorated the town notice board with dried corn and googly eyes. According to Gert, this was all “a bit much,” but she still contributed by placing a squash in a rocking chair and naming it Gerald.
“He’s polite,” she told me. “Doesn’t talk over people.”
Ron, meanwhile, was in peak autumn mode at the bakery. Cinnamon rolls became cinnamon swirls, maple-glazed everything started appearing without warning, and one morning I found him murmuring “brown butter is the backbone of civilization” while stirring a pot.
Eva made scarecrows.
Not for farms. Just... because.
“We need guardians,” she said, stuffing one with old socks. “Also, it keeps people from stealing our sidewalk apples.”
I was in charge of writing Harvest Joy Notes—little cards slipped into bread deliveries with cheerful seasonal sayings like “You’re gourd-geous!” and “Don’t leaf your joy behind!”
Naturally, I signed them all:
—Loafnir, Local Encouragement Knight
Things were going great until the pastor invited me to give a short “thankfulness reflection” at the harvest service.
“Just five minutes,” he said, handing me a bulletin and a slice of banana bread.
I panicked and nodded. “Of course.”
Then went straight home and screamed into a towel.
The night before the service, I wandered down to the edge of the orchard path with a notebook full of half-baked ideas and a pencil that kept breaking. I thought maybe being among the trees would stir something noble in my heart.
Instead, I tripped over a pumpkin.
A big one. Round, perfectly orange, sitting alone at the end of the lane like it had been placed there by a benevolent wizard or a very ambitious raccoon.
I sat beside it, stared at the sky, and mumbled, “Okay, Lord. Any chance You could just... tell me what to say?”
Nothing.
But the wind picked up a little, rustling the branches above me, and a few leaves fluttered down, landing right on the notebook.
One landed on the phrase I’d scribbled earlier and crossed out:
“Sometimes, you don’t get sent somewhere to escape. You get sent somewhere to begin.”I stared at it.
Then uncrossed it.
The next morning, I put on my nicest shirt (still slightly flour-dusted), tucked my notes in my pocket, and walked with Eva to the chapel.
“You’re quiet,” she said.
“Trying to summon divine confidence.”
“Well, you smell like pumpkin spice. That’s halfway there.”
The church was packed—folding chairs added, hymnals already dog-eared, and kids running around with cider cups like tiny chaos engines. The air smelled like cinnamon, wood polish, and good intentions.
Pastor Glenn smiled when he saw me and waved me up after the second hymn.
I stepped up to the little pulpit, cleared my throat, and stared out at a sea of flannel, church hats, and elderly side-eyes.
“I, uh,” I began, “was asked to talk about thankfulness today. Which is difficult when you’re still figuring out what you’re even doing here.”
Laughter, kind and quiet.
“I used to think I’d been sent somewhere... far away. Somewhere otherworldly. Like my life had paused and started again somewhere new. But now I think maybe I didn’t fall into a fantasy world. Maybe I fell back into real life. Just a simpler one.”
People were listening.
“I’m thankful for that. For this town. For the people who gave me flour, shelter, forgiveness... and cinnamon rolls even when I didn’t deserve them.”
Ron made a coughing noise that may have been a snort of approval.
“And I’m especially thankful,” I added, looking briefly at Eva, “for second chances. For when God picks you up and sets you down somewhere that doesn’t make sense—until it does.”
I paused.
“Happy harvest.”
Applause. Real, sincere applause.
I stepped down, shaky but somehow lighter.
Eva bumped my arm as I sat back down. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“You did great.”
I whispered, “That was a level 10 charisma check.”
She smiled. “You passed.”
After the service, folks gathered for cider and cookies in the chapel yard. The kids were playing something that involved chasing each other with miniature rakes. An older woman pressed a caramel apple into my hand and whispered, “You ever think about seminary?”
I blinked. “I haven’t even paid off community college.”
Ron pulled me aside later with a smirk. “Didn’t expect you to go full sermon on us.”
“Neither did I.”
He handed me a small gift bag. Inside: a new spatula, wrapped in tissue paper, and a card that read:
For the only guy I know who turns confusion into community and yeast into healing.“Thanks,” I said, touched.
“Just don’t try to baptize any baguettes.”
That night, sitting on Gert’s porch with my mug of cider and the bag at my feet, I stared up at the stars.
Was this Earth? Probably.
Was it a new world? Maybe not by geography.
But for me, it might as well be.
I opened my journal.
Day 27 (Harvest Edition):And somewhere out in the dark, I imagined Gerald the Porch Squash nodding in solemn agreement.
r as laundry knight. Amen.
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