Page 1 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
Chapter One - Esme
The smell hits me before my eyes even open: warm yeast, cinnamon, something sweet just starting to caramelize. It’s the same every morning, and still, it never fails to drag me out of bed. I dress quickly, moving through the motions like muscle memory: black leggings, a faded T-shirt, the pale blue apron that’s seen too many flour dustings and coffee spills to count.
By the time the sky’s just beginning to soften, I’m already halfway down the narrow staircase that connects my tiny attic room to the bakery below.
Mrs. Geller’s already in the back kneading dough, her grunts of effort echoing faintly over the quiet hum of the early morning. I tie my apron tighter and push through the swinging door, the familiar jingle of the bell above it greeting me like an old friend.
The front of the bakery glows soft gold from the overhead lights, the display case already half full with fresh loaves and sticky buns. I move behind the counter, flicking on the coffee machine, setting out cups, stacking napkins. Everything exactly where it should be. Predictable. Easy.
The first regular shuffles in not long after. Mr. Halvorsen, always in before six, always wants black coffee and two slices of the banana bread. We don’t talk much. He tips his cap, I hand him the to-go bag, and he slips out before the second chime of the door can even fade.
By the time the sun crests over the rooftops, the flow of customers has picked up. Locals mostly—old women with scarves tied under their chins, tired men on their way to work, teenagers who pretend not to care that I remember their orders. I pour, smile, ring up pastries, offer polite hellos. It’s all very pleasant. Very normal.
Too normal, maybe.
There’s a stillness underneath it all now. A kind of itch I can’t name. I’ve been here almost four years—ever since the orphanage shoved me out with a diploma and a list of charities that “might help.” Mrs. Geller offered me a room and part-time work until I found my footing, but I never really left. I told myself it was because of school. The hours were flexible, and I liked the smell of sugar and flour clinging to my skin.
Lately… I don’t know. Something inside me feels restless. Like I’ve been waiting for something without realizing it. Or maybe I’m starting to suspect nothing’s coming at all.
The bell rings again, and I look up out of habit. Another familiar face. Another coffee order I already know. I smile, polite and practiced, and reach for the cup.
Just another morning.
I finish wiping down the counter, hands sticky with sugar and steam, and nod goodbye to Mrs. Geller as I untie my apron. She barely looks up, muttering something about the rye loaves and shaking flour from her hands. I don’t take it personally; she’s always been more oven than emotion. I slip out the side door into the street, the late morning air already warming against my skin. The bookstore’s only a ten-minute walk, and I make it in eight.
Linden & Page is tucked between a vintage clothing shop and a boarded-up theater that hasn’t seen a showing since before I moved here. It smells like old paper and dust and something herbal I’ve never been able to identify. I love it. I clock in, wave to Claire at the front register, and move to my section—back corner, nonfiction. Shelves stacked to the ceiling, a little creaky ladder I pretend I don’t love climbing.
I sort returns, shelve new arrivals, scribble the occasional staff recommendation card when something catches my interest. It’s quiet. No espresso machine hissing in the background, no loaves to wrap. Just the soft shuffle of pages and the low hum of the radio tuned to classical. This is the part of my day where I can breathe. Where I stop smiling just to make other people comfortable.
I’ve worked here almost as long as I’ve lived above the bakery. Started part-time between classes, stayed after graduation because no one else needed a girl with a degree in forensic linguistics. That tends to stop conversations flat. Most people blink at the wordforensic,and assume I wanted to be a cop. I didn’t. It was the language I cared about. The way people reveal things in words they don’t mean to say. How silence says as much as syntax.
There’s a beauty in that. A mystery too. I wanted to uncover things no one else noticed.
Instead, I shelve biographies and write price stickers in fine-tip pen.
When the store’s slow—and it usually is—I linger by the front window. I watch people pass. Tourists with fold-out maps, delivery drivers unloading crates of produce, a man who always wears the same frayed coat and talks to someone who isn’t there. I make up stories about them in my head. Who they are, what they’re hiding, who they miss. Sometimes I sketch them in the margins of my notebook; just rough outlines, pencil smudges and faint lines. A woman with a crooked smile. A boy with shoes too big. Strangers I’ll never meet, but who feel more real to me than most of the people I know.
Claire asks me once if I ever get bored, working two jobs with no break in between. I tell her no. I like it this way. Structure keeps the restlessness at bay. Stillness makes it worse.
It’s near closing when Claire ducks her head into the back and asks if I can cover a delivery. Someone from the front desk was supposed to take it—a box of rare editions we finally tracked down for one of the private clients—but he called out. Migraine, apparently. Claire looks apologetic, but she’s already holding the clipboard out toward me, like she knows I’ll say yes.
She’s right. I always say yes.
“It’s just a couple neighborhoods over,” she says, tapping the address. “Industrial district. Kind of weird, but he paid upfront and tipped big.”
I nod, pulling my hoodie over my head. The late afternoon sun is already softening, dipping low enough that the shadows stretch long between buildings. “Got it. Be back in an hour?”
Claire grins. “I owe you.”
The box isn’t heavy, just awkward—probably first editions or some old hardcovers someone’s hoarding like treasure. I balance it against my hip, wave goodbye, and head out.
The walk starts normal. Familiar storefronts give way to newer developments, then to older warehouses, red brick gone gray with grime and rain. It’s not a bad part of town, not exactly. Just… forgotten. No foot traffic. No lights on in the windows.
My phone buzzes once in my pocket—a low battery warning—and I ignore it. Should’ve charged it last night, but I’d fallen asleep sketching again, pencil still tucked behind my ear when I woke up. I check the address once more before the screen dies completely, a soft flicker and then black. Great.
Still, the location’s easy enough to remember. A long street name. A numbered lot. I keep walking.
By the time I reach the building, my arms are starting to ache from the way I’ve been cradling the box. It looks… not what I expected. The email said “private collection,” but this isn’t someone’s house. It’s a warehouse. Old, tall, unmarked. The windows are dirty and too high to see through, the metal door shut tight with no sign of a bell.
