Nikke's (Laura's) diary: Those days, that were like a dream

   I used to be nothing more than the daughter of a baker.

   Our little shop sat quietly in the suburbs, tucked between narrow streets and sleepy houses. To others, it might have looked plain or ordinary, but to me it was the most precious place in the world. Every morning, the warm smell of bread would fill the air—crispy crusts baking in the oven, the sweetness of cinnamon rolls rising with the steam. I loved it. That smell was the first thing I knew every day, and it felt like a promise that the day ahead would be kind.

   My father was always there, already awake before the sun, kneading dough with strong hands dusted in flour. He would look up at me with a tired but soft smile and say, “Good morning, Laura. Come, today’s batch will be even better.”

   My mother had died the day I was born, so it was just the two of us. But Father never let me feel lonely. He always said the heavens had taken one gift from him but left another in return. His words made me feel loved in a way nothing else ever could.

   We didn’t have much, but in those days, I believed we had everything...

   Then came that night.

* * *

   Rain hammered against the windows, thunder growled in the distance, and suddenly there was a frantic knock at our bakery door. Father opened it, and standing there was a woman, drenched to the bone, her body shaking from cold and hunger. She swayed once, then collapsed before either of us could speak.

   Father carried her inside without hesitation. He wrapped her in blankets, placed her near the fire, and fed her warm broth until her breathing steadied. For days he tended to her, and I helped however I could—fetching water, holding her hand when her fever rose.

   When she finally opened her eyes, her lips trembled, and she spoke her name.

   "Freya"

* * *

   After Freya recovered, she insisted on helping at the bakery to repay us. We didn’t have enough hands anyway, so Father agreed. From then on, life seemed to shine a little brighter.

   Freya worked with a quiet grace. She kneaded dough beside Father, taught me how to braid loaves, and laughed when I made a mess with flour. She would hum while she cleaned the counters, her voice soft but cheerful, and somehow even the simplest chores felt lighter when she was there. Customers noticed too—our shop became livelier, warmer. People didn’t just come for bread anymore; they came for the smiles that greeted them at the door.

   In the evenings, after closing, we would sit together at the wooden table with cups of tea and fresh bread, laughing about little things. Father’s smile seemed fuller than ever, and for the first time, I thought I truly understood what it meant to have a full family.

   Then one night, Father surprised us both. His hands shook as he held Freya’s, his voice unsteady as he asked her to marry him. She didn’t hesitate for even a moment—her eyes shimmered as she said yes.

   I remember hugging them both, my chest so full I thought it might burst. I had always dreamed of having a mum, and suddenly, it felt real. We became a family.

   …But dreams don’t last forever.

   One day, a man in expensive clothes walked into our bakery. His name was Magnus Silverbane.