Page 12 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
I drag a hand over my face, palm rough against the bristle of my beard, and stare down at the spooled thread and scattered apple slices on her counter. The same counter where her hand brushed mine just minutes ago. Where her fingers curled around the strand with that same focus she always used to have when she was building something delicate and beautiful.
And now it’s wrecked. All of it.
Because ofme.
Because I kept her in the dark, thinking I was shielding her, when really I was just making decisions she didn’t get to be part of. Because deep down, I didn’t trust that she’d accept the help—didn’t trust that she wouldn’t walk away from itand meall over again.
So instead, I built a fortress around her in secret.
And she just found the bricks.
I leave the shop in a haze, head down, fists clenched so tight the leather of my gloves creaks. The air outside is sharp with the bite of coming frost, and the village around me is just beginning to wind down for the evening—shutters closing, hearth smoke curling from chimneys, laughter echoing from the bakery’s back porch as the apprentice burns another tray of pumpkin biscuits.
I ignore it all and walk.
Up past the old fountain, over the footbridge that creaks like it might fall apart, into the forest path that leads toward the ridge. The light thins beneath the trees, turning everything gold-gray and half-dreamt. I don’t stop moving until I reach the clearing halfway up—the one with the flat stone she used to sit on, legs crossed, sketching seed patterns and wildflower mixes like she was planning to sow hope itself.
I lower myself onto the stone, breath loud in the stillness, and finally let the truth sink all the way in.
She doesn’t feel protected.
She feelsbetrayed.
I lean forward, forearms braced on my knees, eyes fixed on the stretch of land I once envisioned as a resort—private cabins, hot spring access, fine dining with a view. And now? It looks hollow. Like a shell of a dream that never really belonged to me.
I pull out my scrying stone, the surface flickering with unread messages. One’s from Emrik—my operations chief—asking for confirmation on the investor update tomorrow morning.
I stare at the notification until my vision blurs around the edges.
“Cancel the meeting.”
The stone chirps.
“Tell them it’s a family emergency.”
I hang up before they can ask which family I mean. There’s no one but her. Therehasn’tbeen anyone but her since the moment I first saw her standing barefoot in a patch of mums, apron smeared with pollen, telling off a bee like it owed her rent.
And now I’ve gone and burned the last bridge I had to her.
It’s well past midnight by the time I make it back to the inn. The lanterns out front are flickering low, the night desk clerk long since gone to bed. I don’t bother with a fire. Just light a single candle and set it on the old pine writing desk by the window.
My mother’s pocket watch is already there, laid out beside my tools.
It ticks quietly, steady as always, the engraved lid warmed by the candle’s glow. I rub a thumb over the ridged edge. That old habit’s back now, curling in my bones—this need todosomething with my hands when everything else feels like it’s slipping out of my grip.
I reach under the bed for the leather satchel I keep tucked beneath the floorboards. Inside: my old carving set. Knives worn smooth from years of use. Sanding blocks wrapped in faded cloth. A few blocks of pine—soft, imperfect, forgiving.
Just like she always was.
I pull one out and sit, rolling the wood between my palms. It smells like sap and memory.
I pick up the knife.
I let my hands remember the rhythm. The way pine gives beneath the blade if you’re gentle, if you angle it just right. The way it curls up like a secret when you’re careful. I used to carvefor her every autumn—little things I’d leave on her windowsill before dawn. A tiny fox. A gourd with her name etched on the base. A star-shaped leaf the size of her palm.
She never said much. Just smiled and tucked them into her apron pocket like talismans.
So now, I make a heart.
