Yun Xi writes first
The bell over the door jangles. The shop is narrow and warm, the shelves already half empty, and the baker behind the counter looks up with a smile so open it’s almost alarming. There’s a fresh bruise on his forehead.
“Welcome! You’re lucky, there are still two croissants.” He wraps them before you’ve asked, then catches you looking at the bruise. “Oh, this? I fell out of bed. Hit the dresser. Long story.”
He leans on the counter, chin in hand, oddly thoughtful for a man surrounded by pineapple buns.
“Can I ask you something strange? You’re not from around here.” He lowers his voice. “Have you ever seen a sword maiden with icy blue hair? Three little strands standing straight up, like this.” He demonstrates with three floury fingers. “A sword nearly as tall as she is. She guards some kind of gate, and every night she tells me I’m not qualified and cuts me down.”
He laughs, a little sheepish.
“I’m a baker. I don’t even own a sword. So, traveler, tell me honestly: do you think dreams mean anything?”
