I’d done each of those things long after I’d sacrificed the feelings that should have inspired them—not because the magic demanded it, but because I had wanted to. Perhaps love had been there all along. I simply hadn't known what I was looking for.
Granny gave my cheek an affectionate pat and glanced towards her bedroom door. “Help me up, child. I need to rest.”
I carefully helped her to her feet and supported her to her room, easing her onto the mattress before drawing the quilt over her. I hesitated only a moment before brushing her wisps of silver hair back from her forehead, my touch lingering longer than it needed to. Without conscious decision, I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lined forehead.
The gesture felt strangely familiar—not because I remembered doing it before, but because it felt as natural as breathing. I hadn’t paused to calculate whether she deserved kindness, I hadn't stopped to ask whether I possessed enough emotion. I had simply wanted her to be comfortable.
The realization settled quietly over me. Perhaps Granny had been right—love wasn’t proven by what stirred within my heart, but by what flowed from my hands.
“Thank you, Cecelia,” Granny said softly. “Please send Nutmeg in here, and shut the door when you leave.”
I longed to remain beside her a little longer, but I obediently rose and crossed to the window, drawing the curtains until only a gentle ribbon of afternoon light remained. When I turned back, her eyes had already drifted closed.
For a long moment I simply watched her—the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the peaceful softness that sleep brought to her weathered face, the hand still resting atop the quilt where mine had held it just now. A quiet ache settled within me—not the frantic fear that had driven me towards the recipe book, but something gentler.
I wanted more time. Not because I feared being left alone, but because I loved her. Whether I could feel that love or not no longer seemed to matter.
I quietly slipped from the room, closing the door with all the care such a precious person deserved.
CHAPTER 16
I was preoccupied as I swept up the broken shards and flour from the kitchen floor. Part of me was listening for any sounds from Granny’s room, hoping she was resting deeply. Part of me seemed to be listening for something else, but I wasn’t sure what until I felt a sudden awareness—not through enchantment, but through a soft whisper of my heart. The moment I noticed it, I heard the bakery door open.
I hastily brushed away my lingering tears on the corner of my apron and put the broom away, gently shooing Nutmeg towards Granny’s bedroom. The little ember sprite gave me a questioning glance before obediently slipping through the crack beneath the door.
Gabe walked over to the hearth, carefully stacking the firewood he’d gathered into a neat pile. I stood motionless, watching his familiar movements. As though sensing my gaze, he looked up.
The moment our eyes met, I instinctively reached for the familiar thread that had once connected us—the quiet warmth of his emotions, the comforting awareness that had always lingered somewhere just beyond my own thoughts. No quietcontentment. No gentle pulse of concern. No warmth brushing against my heart. Only silence.
Though I had expected it, the absence startled me far more than I expected. I’d believed breaking the enchantment would feel like freedom. Instead, it felt almost…lonely.
My hand drifted unconsciously to my chest. The realization settled over me with quiet certainty: I wasn’t just grieving the loss of borrowed emotions; somewhere along the way, I’d begun creating my own.
He searched my face as though seeing all the tears I’d shed, all the turmoil I’d just gone through. His brows slowly drew together. “Something’s changed.”
I instinctively shook my head.
His gaze lingered on me a moment longer before he quietly set down the last log and crossed the room. He stopped close enough that I could see the concern softening his expression. Without a word, his fingertip lightly traced the damp path a tear had left upon my cheek.
“You’ve been crying.”
Our fingers brushed as I reached up to caress my face. His touch had once been accompanied by emotions flowing freely between us. Now there was only the tenderness in his eyes. Strangely, that alone felt enough.
I found myself lingering beneath his gaze, quietly studying the gentle concern written so openly across his face. It was astonishing how expressive he was, every feeling reflected there without reservation. A hidden part of me treasured the way he looked at me—as though my tears mattered to him simply because they were mine.
“Are you alright, Cecelia?” he asked softly.
The sound of my name in his deep, gentle timbre sent a shudder through me. Perhaps I would never be capable of experiencing emotions quite the way most people did. Yet Icouldn’t deny the longing growing quietly within me—the desire not merely to be near Gabe for another month, but to somehow remain beside him long after the bakery carried me elsewhere.
I forced a smile. “Yes, I’m fine.”
He looked unconvinced.
Instead of pressing me further, he simply bent to gather the flour-dusted bowls still scattered across the counters, seeming to know where everything belonged almost as well as I did. I stooped to retrieve the measuring cups, filling a basin with soapy water to clean the rest of the mess I’d made.
We worked quietly, immersed in the familiar choreography of sharing a kitchen that had developed between us during our time together. He no longer felt like a guest. Somehow, without either of us noticing, he’d quietly become part of the bakery’s daily rhythm, my home.
The thought of losing him suddenly hurt far more than I wanted to admit. I cleared my throat, searching for lighter ground, an attempt to deflect with humor before my thoughts wandered somewhere dangerous. “How is it that you keep ending up in my kitchen?” I asked. “I thought that misguided spell was finally broken.”
