Page 9 of Knot Baked Out For This
Bats dangle from the awning like they're permanent residents. Tiny scarecrows are stationed at strategic intervals, their little burlap faces either charming or deeply unsettling, depending on your relationship with inanimate objects that stare. There's a wreath made entirely of miniature pumpkins that probably cost more than my first car.
The whole street smells like someone melted down every fall-scented candle Bath & Body Works has ever made and just released it directly into the atmosphere—caramel glaze and bonfire smoke mixing with an undertone of wet leaves and cider that's definitely past its expiration date but no one's brave enough to throw out because it's "part of the ambiance."
Home, I remind myself, gripping the steering wheel hard enough to leave indents in my palms.
Or at least it will be. Eventually. Maybe.
If I don't spontaneously combust from anxiety first or get driven out by the aggressive autumn aesthetic.
Muffin voices her immediate and extremely violent protest from the passenger seat the second I put the van in park.
She's spent three hours trapped in a cat carrier that she's made very clear is a violation of her rights, forced to listen to my true crime podcasts—because nothing says "fresh start" like learning about serial killers—and my off-key renditions of "Monster Mash" that would make Bobby Pickett weep for the future of music.
Now she wants blood.
Preferably mine.
Possibly everyone's…
She's not picky about whose blood, just that blood must be spilled to atone for this injustice.
"We're here," I announce to her, like she can't see the bakery through the mesh of her carrier; like she hasn't been glaring at me with those amber-green murder eyes for the last sixty miles, communicating volumes about her opinion of my life choices and my continued existence.
She yowls. It's not a cute meow. It's not even a regular cat complaint.
It's the sound of a tiny demon who's been taking notes and planning revenge, the audio equivalent of "I will remember this betrayal for the rest of your natural life."
"Five minutes," I promise, even though we both know I'm lying. It's going to take way longer than five minutes to haul all this stuff upstairs, and she knows it. "Then you get your throne, and I'll never make you travel again. Cross my heart."
She doesn't believe me.
Smart cat.
I pop the side door and immediately regret every single possession I own. Boxes everywhere—brown bakery bins stacked like Tetris pieces, one pumpkin-orange duffel bag that's seen better days and several war zones, and my prized "Pumpkin Soul" tote that's four years old, covered in flour stains that tell the story of every bakery I've worked in, and the only purse big enough to smuggle an entire pie, which I have done on multiple occasions with zero regrets.
I shoulder the tote, immediately feeling the weight of what I'm pretty sure is my entire collection of measuring cups. I scoop up two boxes in my left arm—feeling my bicep immediately protest this decision—and nudge Muffin's carrier with my foot because I've run out of hands and this is fine, everything is fine, this is a totally sustainable way to move.
She glowers at me through the mesh like I've personally betrayed her entire ancestral line, like every cat who came before her is watching this moment and judging my techniques.
"I know, I know," I mutter, trying to hook my elbow through the carrier handle. "Indignity and suffering. The story of your life. You can file a formal complaint with cat resources once we're inside."
My new apartment is upstairs, just above the bakery, which seemed convenient and practical when I signed the lease three weeks ago and now feels like a fresh circle of hell specifically designed for people with too many kitchen supplies and one vindictive calico with opinions.
There's a narrow alleyway off the main drag—barely wide enough for me to fit through sideways with all these boxes—then an even narrower staircase so crooked I genuinely wonder if it was built as a practical joke. Like someone said "stairs" and the contractor heard "structural nightmare designed to test human endurance and balance."
The walls are painted that particular shade of beige that interior designers probably call "warm neutral" but really just screams "we gave up on having opinions about color." There's a fist-sized crack by the light switch that I'm choosing to interpret as character rather than structural damage, because if I start thinking about structural damage I'll never make it up these stairs.
The first box slams into my knee with enough force to leave what I'm sure will be a spectacular bruise. My thigh twitches in protest. I almost drop the tote, which would result in my favorite measuring cups making a break for freedom down the stairs and probably achieving sentience just to spite me.
Muffin yowls louder, rattling the bars of her carrier like she's staging a prison break.
I climb, because what else am I going to do? Go back? Admit defeat to a staircase? Absolutely not. I've come too far to be beaten by architecture.
Every step creaks, not in a gentle "historic building with character" way but like the floorboards are having a very serious argument about whether to collapse completely and take me with them. Some creak high-pitched, like they're screaming. Some groan low and ominous, like they're issuing warnings in a language I should probably learn. The bulb overhead flickers with the enthusiasm of someone who's done with this job and just waiting for retirement, possibly death.
Great. If this place isn't haunted by the ghost of a pie-eating Beta with boundary issues and unfinished business, I'll eat my own baking sheets. All of them. Raw.
At the top, the landing spills directly into my apartment—no hallway, no warning, just suddenly you're in someone's living space. The door sticks so hard I have to shoulder it open like I'm breaching a crime scene, which causes the boxes to teeter dangerously and Muffin's carrier to bump my thigh hard enough that I'm definitely going to have bruises in interesting shapes tomorrow.
