Who Am I?

Chapter Nineteen: The Dragon Parade and the Prophecy of the Lost Sock

I was not prepared for the dragon parade.

Not that anyone could’ve really prepared for it. The whole thing was Gert’s doing, of course. She claimed it was a “Gribbleton tradition,” though I later learned it had only started three years ago when she found a box of old Chinese New Year decorations at a yard sale and decided to make something of it.

“Why let perfectly good glitter dragons go to waste?” she’d said.

And so it began.

I first heard the drums around mid-morning—low, rhythmic, and deeply confusing. By the time I got outside, a crowd had already formed. Children wearing paper-mâché helmets marched in erratic formation. One of them was dressed like a goblin and was attempting to ride a push broom like a battle steed.

The “dragon” itself was made of three connected bed sheets painted red and gold, with tinfoil eyes and plastic fork teeth. It wound its way through the street like a sleep-deprived caterpillar, bobbing wildly every time someone sneezed.

Leading the parade was, naturally, Gert.

She wore a flowing green robe made from old curtains and shouted into a megaphone she didn’t seem to know how to turn off.

“MAKE WAY FOR THE DEFENDERS OF GRIBBLETON. THE DRAGON OF FRIENDSHIP APPROACHETH.”

I stood there watching, unsure whether to applaud, run, or apologize to anyone who made eye contact.

Eva appeared beside me, sipping something from a thermos that smelled suspiciously like hot chocolate spiked with chaos.

“Good morning,” she said, like this was completely normal.

“This... is a parade?”

“Technically,” she said. “Also technically a theater performance, cultural celebration, and semi-annual sock drive.”

“Sock drive?”

She pointed at the laundry basket being lugged by two middle schoolers in elf ears. A sign on it read: ‘Donate Warmth – For the Prophecy Must Be Fulfilled.’

I blinked. “What prophecy?”

Eva grinned. “Oh, Loaf, don’t you know? It is foretold that the Chosen Sock, once donated, shall lead the way to an age of clean laundry and eternal dryer balance.”

“Is this town okay?”

She just nodded and said, “No. And it’s beautiful.”

Later, I helped carry muffins down to the park for the post-parade potluck. My job was specifically to guard the cinnamon swirl tray from the church geese, who had learned to coordinate attacks in trios.

While fending off a particularly bold one named Harold, I found myself talking to a man named Franklin who claimed to be the town’s “semi-official cryptozoologist.”

“I’ve been tracking sightings of the long-lost Gribbleton Badger Moose,” he explained while adjusting his camo vest. “Seen some tracks. Couple tufts of plaid fur. Could be big this year.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Saw a UFO last week, too. Hovered right over the gazebo. Might’ve been a plastic grocery bag caught in the wind, but I don’t trust coincidences.”

He leaned in. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Well, you have the look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says, ‘I came here expecting answers and instead found a dragon made of sheets and a sock-based cult.’ You know. The look.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or deeply affirmed.

As the sun began to set, people gathered around the fire pit and shared stories. Most were funny or sweet—like the tale of Mrs. Lindstrom’s heroic attempt to bake a wedding cake during a blackout, or the time a goat broke into the library and refused to leave until someone read it poetry.

Then one old man stood up—Mr. Barrens, I think—and cleared his throat.

“Long ago,” he said, “they say a traveler came here, tired and worn out from his journey. He didn’t know if he was meant to stay or just passing through. But while he was here, he healed.”

People quieted.

“He thought he was looking for a new place. But what he found was a new self. That’s what Gribbleton does, sometimes.”

I stared at him. His eyes twinkled like he knew something he wasn’t telling me.

Eva leaned over and whispered, “That story’s about a stray cat.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

She nodded. “But also, probably not.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

The laughter of the parade still echoed in my ears. The dancing. The food. The ridiculous, wonderful nonsense of it all.

I sat by the window and looked out at the phone booth.

It was still there. Quiet. Watching.

I grabbed my notebook and scribbled:

Day 32
There was a dragon today. I mean, technically. But it still counts. I keep thinking maybe this is all too good to be Earth. People don’t act like this where I’m from. Nobody’s this… willing to be strange together. But what if they could be? What if I’m not in another world... just a part of Earth I never believed could exist? Lord, if this is home—just say the word. I’ll unpack. P.S. If the sock prophecy is real, I formally volunteer as laundry knight. Amen. Chapter Twenty: The Great Garden Dispute of Gribbleton

You haven’t lived until you’ve watched two retirees argue over the theological implications of compost.

It began with Mrs. Horton and Mr. Barrens standing on opposite sides of the community garden’s central walkway, both wielding trowels and looks of barely restrained judgment.

“I’m telling you,” Mrs. Horton said, pointing to a compost bin like it owed her money, “you can’t just toss in banana peels and call it ‘living soil.’ You need eggshells. You need balance.”

Mr. Barrens, unfazed in his overalls and battered straw hat, folded his arms. “Balance is a myth. What you need is chaos. Nature thrives on disorder. A good compost pile should smell like challenge.”

“I knew you were the one adding those weird mushrooms,” she snapped.

“They’re experimental.”

“They’re glowing, Harold.”

“That’s called progress, Beatrice.”

I stood in the middle of the path holding a watering can and silently regretting ever volunteering to help water “Plot F” (a row of kale that had seen better decades).

Eva leaned against the fence nearby, munching on a pear and clearly enjoying the show.

“Should we intervene?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Nah. This is how they flirt.”

“Wait—what?”

“They’ve been doing this for years. The church has a betting pool on when they’ll get married or accidentally bury each other.”

I stared at the bickering elders. “Honestly, either outcome seems plausible.”

After twenty minutes, the argument shifted toward the ethics of gnome placement. I excused myself before it could escalate to sock puppet demonstrations (yes, that happened once, apparently), and wandered to the far corner of the garden.

There, tucked beneath an old apple tree, was a bench. It had been there forever, paint peeling, slightly crooked. No plaque. Just… waiting.

I sat.

And for the first time in days, I let the quiet settle in.

Gribbleton had a strange kind of silence. Not empty—just full in a soft way. Like a quilt over your shoulders. You could still hear distant laughter, a dog barking, a hammer on wood somewhere. But none of it felt loud. None of it wanted anything from you.

I liked that.

Mr. Barrens found me there not long after, a thermos in one hand and his usual unreadable expression in place.

“Mind if I sit?”

“Go ahead,” I said.

He eased onto the bench beside me with a quiet grunt, then unscrewed the lid on his thermos and poured a second cup without asking. He handed it to me. Chamomile. With lemon.

I took a sip. “Thanks.”

He nodded, then looked out over the garden.

“You’ve taken to this place better than most,” he said after a minute.

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

I sighed. “It’s weird. Wonderful. Confusing. Every time I think I’ve figured it out, something throws me off again.”

“Like?”

“Like the dragon parade. Or the sock prophecy. Or you saying compost needs chaos.”

He chuckled softly.

“And then,” I added, “there are moments where it feels like maybe I’m supposed to be here. Like I belong. But then I remember—this isn’t normal. None of this is. It can’t be.”

Mr. Barrens looked at me for a long time, then said, “Who told you ‘normal’ was the goal?”

I blinked. “What?”

“I’ve lived in a dozen towns, seen people cling to all kinds of routines, rituals, titles. Most of ’em were miserable. You know the people who seem to glow a little? Who you just want to sit by? They’re not trying to be normal. They’re trying to be present.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So he added, “Gribbleton doesn’t care who you were. Just who you’re becoming.”

He took a long sip of his tea and then looked back toward the path where the old gnomes stood slightly askew. “You’ve got questions. Fair ones. But maybe stop looking for a grand reveal. Life ain’t always about spotlights. Sometimes it’s about staying in the scene long enough to notice the background characters are the real story.”

I frowned. “Are you calling me a background character?”

He smiled, just slightly. “I’m saying maybe you’ve been staring at the wrong plotline.”

I thought about that for a while. “Do you know why I’m here?”

There was a pause.

“Maybe,” he said, “but it ain’t my place to say. You’ll figure it out. Sooner than you think.”

That night at the bakery, Eva and I stayed late prepping for the weekend rush. She let me mix the strawberry glaze, which is apparently a badge of trust.

“I’m gonna let you in on a secret,” she said, tapping a spoon against the bowl. “This isn’t just glaze. This is emotional armor.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning when someone comes in furious about a missing croissant, you hand them a raspberry swirl with this stuff on top, and suddenly they forget their own name.”

I grinned. “You could run a coup with this glaze.”

“Already do,” she winked.

Afterward, we sat in the alley behind the bakery eating sugar-dusted mistakes that didn’t make it to the front display.

“You ever think you were sent here?” I asked, watching the stars come out above the rooftop.

Eva didn’t answer right away.

“I think,” she said, “that sometimes life kicks you in the teeth, and sometimes it throws you into a weird little town full of magic and muffins. Either way, the best thing you can do is pay attention.”

“That’s… oddly comforting.”

“I’ve been told I’m the human form of an inspirational coffee mug.”

I laughed, and she bumped her shoulder against mine.

Back in my room, I pulled out the old map again. Still no new revelations. Still the same spiral symbol beside the phone booth. Still the same made-up names.

But now, I wondered if they were all made up.

I remembered what Mr. Barrens said. About not aiming for normal. About becoming.

I opened my journal.

Day 33:
Garden wars. Sock prophecies. Tinfoil dragons. And now, compost flirting.

Maybe You’re not trying to teach me a grand lesson, Lord. Maybe You’re just showing me a slower way to be.

It’s not what I thought I wanted. But I think it’s what I need.

P.S. If Harold the goose comes near the cinnamon tray again, please smite him gently. Amen.

From the hallway, I heard Gert yell, “Don’t threaten Harold, boy! He’s got seniority!”

I grinned.

Tomorrow was going to be another strange day in the only world that made sense anymore.

Chapter Twenty-One: A Puff Pastry Emergency

The day started with a fire drill.

Not a real fire, mind you. Just Gert accidentally leaning against the oven’s emergency alarm while wrestling a tray of bear claws out of it like it owed her rent.

Bells clanged, lights flashed, and I dropped a pan of croissants like a startled goose. Eva laughed so hard she almost fell into the flour bin. Gert simply muttered, "Drills build character."

Once the bakery was back to its pre-alarm serenity (minus the croissant casualties), Eva assigned me to the register for the first time.

"You’ve graduated from doughboy to face of the operation," she announced with mock solemnity, handing me the apron with the least icing stains.

I stood behind the counter, gripping the cash drawer like it might explode.

The first customer was a breeze—Mrs. Gilroy, who ordered the same cinnamon twist and black coffee every morning and called me “sweetpea.” The second was a man who paid in exact change and told me a riddle about turnips.

The third was trouble.

He wore a tailored gray suit and had an eyebrow so arched it looked like it had its own opinions. He stared at the pastry case like it had personally offended him.

“I’ll take a lemon square,” he said.

I boxed it carefully and rang him up.

He held up a finger. "Wait. Did I say lemon square? I meant raspberry danish."

I nodded, switched them, and adjusted the register.

“Actually,” he continued, “a croissant might be better. Plain. No. Chocolate.”

Eva, watching from behind the curtain, mouthed, Don’t do it.

But I was determined.

“Coming right up,” I said cheerfully.

Five more changes later, I finally handed him a sticky bun and a receipt.

He stared at it, smiled faintly, and said, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

As he walked away, I whispered, “This is why we need dragon guards.”

Later that afternoon, I swept the sidewalk in front of the shop when Mr. Barrens passed by, carrying a basket of eggplants and what looked suspiciously like a banjo.

“Good day for growing things,” he said.

“Good day for smiting picky customers,” I replied.

He chuckled. “You settling in alright?”

I nodded. “Mostly. Had my first customer duel today. I survived.”

“Character building,” he said, echoing Gert.

I leaned on the broom handle and squinted at him. “You ever get the sense people here know more than they let on?”

“Every day,” he said simply, then tipped his hat and walked on.

That night, I sat in the bakery’s break room with Eva, splitting the last of the shortbread cookies.

“You ever think people here are a little too... practiced?” I asked.

She arched an eyebrow. “Practiced how?”

“Like they’re part of a play and forgot to tell me my lines.”

Eva chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe they’re just living out their own script. Doesn’t mean you’re not in the same story.”

“But what if I was dropped in from another story entirely?”

She smiled. “Then you get to help write this one fresh.”

I pulled out my journal that night and scribbled:

Day 34:
Pastry politics are deadly. People here are strange and too wise. I suspect conspiracy.
But the shortbread is divine, so I’ll stay. For now.

And with that, I turned out the light and dreamed of lemon squares staging a coup.

Tomorrow, I decided, I would make sense of this place.

Or at least learn how to smile like I belonged.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Operation: Cookie Diplomacy

If you’ve never seen an entire town go to war over a cookie recipe, you’ve never lived in Gribbleton.

It started when Eva and I decided to tweak the classic oatmeal raisin. Nothing dramatic—just a hint of cardamom, a dash of sea salt, and chocolate chips instead of raisins (because raisins are betrayal disguised as fruit).

The first batch sold out in ten minutes.

The second batch was gone before the tray hit the counter.

Then came the letters.

Three of them, to be exact—each handwritten in flowery cursive, signed anonymously, and accusing us of "reckless disregard for sacred cookie tradition."

Eva framed them.

But we weren’t prepared for Mrs. Gilroy’s revolt.

She came in wearing her crocheted shawl of judgment and slammed a tin of homemade oatmeal raisin cookies on the counter like a duel had been declared.

“You’ll taste real heritage,” she said. “And then you’ll repent.”

Gert, who’d been quietly watching from the corner, called out, “Bake-off!”

“Bake-off,” Eva echoed solemnly.

And just like that, Gribbleton's first official Cookie Summit was born.

The rules were posted on the church bulletin board. The judging panel was chosen by lottery (and one bribe—Gert insisted the mayor owed her a favor). The town square would be the battlefield.

Mr. Barrens offered to build a scoreboard. I’m still not sure where he found all those tiny flags.

Come Saturday, the square smelled like sugar, ambition, and passive-aggressive baking. Bunting lined the benches. Children wore sashes that read “Team Raisin” or “Team Chocolate.”

Eva stood in our stall like a general, apron crisply tied, eyes narrowed.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Ready,” I said, steadying the tray.

Then Mrs. Gilroy’s table caught fire.

Apparently she’d used an old camp stove to keep her cookies warm and miscalculated the proximity of the doily decorations. Eva put it out with a fire extinguisher and a terrifying level of calm.

“Still counts,” she told the scorched tin. “Charred notes. Very vintage.”

The judges bit, chewed, conferred.

Tension mounted.

And then—

“Winner: Carda-choco-salties!” shouted Mayor Billings, waving a cookie with theatrical flair.

Eva high-fived me. Mrs. Gilroy declared it a rigged outcome and immediately demanded a rematch involving muffins.

Later, she also challenged the church choir to a scone duel, which everyone politely ignored.

That night, as we scrubbed icing off the folding tables, I looked around at the townspeople laughing, tossing crumbs to birds, and arguing over whether snickerdoodles were a breakfast food.

"I thought you said this place was quiet," I said.

Eva grinned. "I said it was calm. Not uneventful."

As we packed up the leftover cookies, a little girl ran up and handed me a drawing. It was of me and Eva, standing behind a cookie stall with hearts drawn all around. We were both wearing crowns.

Eva glanced over my shoulder and snorted. “Looks like we’ve been crowned cookie royalty.”

“Do I get a cape?”

“You get dish duty.”

I journaled later:

Day 35:
Cookie war concluded. Casualties: none. Pride: bruised. Raisins: exiled.
But I’m starting to feel like I’m not just passing through anymore.
Maybe this world—whatever it is—isn’t something I fell into. Maybe it caught me.

And maybe it’s not so eager to let go.

Chapter Twenty-Three: A Stroll and a Secret

The bakery was quieter than usual the next morning. Not somber, exactly, but a kind of soft calm settled into the walls. Maybe everyone was tired from the cookie showdown, or maybe the flour dust hadn’t quite cleared from the air and we were all just breathing pastry dreams.

I was reorganizing the bread display when Eva nudged me with a roll of parchment tied with gingham ribbon.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Today’s lunch menu,” she said, then lowered her voice. “But really, it’s an excuse to get you out of here. You’ve been twitchy since the bake-off.”

“I don’t twitch.”

“You twitch like a bunny at a thunderstorm.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

Eva dragged me out after the lunch rush. We took the long route through the village, down the winding path near the orchard, past the duck pond where the ducks had recently formed a suspiciously organized circle.

“Are they... plotting?” I asked.

“They’re ducks,” she said. “They’re always plotting.”

We sat on the bench near the footbridge. The sky was that perfect kind of blue that only happens when you forget what a traffic jam feels like. Eva picked at a piece of grass between her fingers.

“You’ve been off lately,” she said gently. “Something’s bothering you.”

I hesitated. “Do you ever wonder if we’re not where we think we are?”

Eva tilted her head. “Existentially or geographically?”

“Both.”

She gave it a moment, then smiled. “Loaf, you’re not a character in a book.”

“But if I were, I’d probably be comic relief.”

She snorted. “You’re more than that.”

A breeze picked up. It smelled like apples and hay and the first hint of fall.

“You know,” I said, “Sometimes it feels like the whole town is in on a joke I don’t get.”

“That’s because they probably are,” she said. “They just like you too much to leave you out for long.”

I smiled. Then she stood.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s head back.”

We passed the old well near the chapel, the one with the crooked roof. Eva stopped for a moment and dropped a pebble into it, listening to the faint splash.

“My grandmother used to say wishes made in this well always come true,” she said.

“Did they?” I asked.

“She wished for a dog. Got three. Be careful what you wish for.”

Back on the path, we passed the community garden. A few elderly folks were bent over the rows of carrots and kale, humming quietly. One of them waved at us with a trowel.

“I think the entire town is a sitcom waiting for a laugh track,” I said.

Eva shrugged. “If so, you’re definitely the lead.”

As we approached the bakery, we spotted Mr. Barrens leaving Gert’s cottage next door. He straightened his collar, tucked a folded paper under his arm, and tipped his hat.

“Off somewhere?” Eva asked.

He nodded. "Just going to make sure my old man knows."

He didn’t elaborate.

We watched him stroll off down the lane, humming something old and cheerful.

Eva looked at me sideways. “You still think we’re in another world?”

I didn’t answer. But my journal that night read:

Day 36:
Something’s shifting. Eva knows more than she lets on. Mr. Barrens definitely does.
Maybe I was meant to be here after all. Or maybe I stumbled into something bigger than a bakery.
But I think the ducks are definitely up to something.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Eavesdrop and Echoes

It was early—too early for sense, even for Gribbleton. The fog clung to the cobblestones like it didn’t want to leave, and the sky still wore its robe of pre-dawn gray. I was up because of a dream. One of those slippery ones you can’t quite catch but leaves your brain buzzing, like a forgotten name on the tip of your tongue.

I crept down to the bakery to start the morning fire, only to realize Eva had already beat me to it. The place was warm and smelled faintly of cinnamon and wet wood. Not wanting to get underfoot, I took the long way around through the back lane that passed behind Gert’s cottage.

That’s when I heard her.

Gert. Talking. To someone.

At first I thought maybe she had company. But the tone of her voice—the rhythm of pauses—it sounded like she was on the phone.

"He’s adjusting fine," she said. "Better than we expected, actually. Still a little confused, but his heart’s soft, and his hands are steady."

Pause.

"No, I haven’t shown him yet. He’s not ready. But I think he will be soon."

Another pause. Her voice dropped lower.

"If he asks, I’ll tell him. But not a moment before."

My foot shifted on a gravel patch, and she stopped talking. I ducked back quickly and made myself look occupied by inspecting a truly unimpressive weed.

A door creaked shut. Silence again.

I didn’t see a phone. But I heard her, clear as anything. And the way she talked—

It wasn’t small-town gossip. It wasn’t even neighborly concern. It was official. Careful. Like someone reporting in.

By the time I looped back to the bakery, Eva was pulling croissants from the oven.

"You okay?" she asked. "You look like you saw a ghost."

"Just a weird morning," I mumbled.

I didn’t mention Gert.

Not yet.

I spent most of the day in a strange haze. Every time someone spoke to me, I wondered if they were watching me a little too closely. When Mr. Barrens stopped by for his usual poppy seed twist, he asked how my sleep was, and I couldn’t help but hesitate before answering. Did he know?

Even the ducks were suspicious. One waddled up to the back step and stared at me through the glass. I stared back. We were locked in some kind of unspoken contest until Eva shooed it away with a broom.

I found excuses to walk past Gert’s place twice more that day, but there was no sign of a phone. No cable. No antenna. No odd humming or blinking lights. The cottage looked just like everyone else’s—charming, old, full of secrets.

At lunch, Eva caught me chewing absentmindedly on a spoon.

“You’re going to splinter your molars,” she said.

“Do you think Gert ever had kids?” I asked.

Eva raised an eyebrow. “What kind of question is that?”

“Just wondering how much she knows about people. She seems like the observant type.”

“She’s been around a long time,” Eva said carefully. “She’s the kind of person who remembers what you forgot. Even if you never told her.”

That night, I didn’t sleep much. I sat near the bakery hearth with a cup of chamomile, watching the coals glow down to soft embers. I wondered how many people in this village had phones. Had internet. Had... instructions.

Was I the only one who thought this was something more than a sleepy town? Or was I the last one to find out what it really was?

Day 37:
Gert has a phone. I’m sure of it. No one else seems to find that strange. Why would she hide it? Why would she be reporting on me?
Still don’t know where I am. Still not convinced it’s Earth.
But maybe I’m not just lost. Maybe I’m being... managed.