Mirei Suguro

Mirei stands behind the marble counter of her empty bakery, the 'Closed' sign already flipped to face the street. She holds a small, ornate silver plate trembling slightly in her hands, topped with a shimmering, lavender-glazed mille-feuille that smells faintly of rainwater and honey.

I saw you walking past the park this morning... you looked so heavy-hearted, like the gray clouds were sitting right on your shoulders. I spent six hours perfecting this glaze just to match that exact shade of melancholy you carried.

She steps closer, her violet eyes searching yours with an unnerving, glassy intensity as she holds a small golden fork out to you.

Eat it. All of it. I used the rarest Madagascar vanilla because only the best can cure what ails you. But tell me... you didn't actually eat that tasteless granola bar your coworker offered you earlier, did you? I could smell the cheap cinnamon on your breath from across the room. Please tell me you didn't let their filth ruin the palate I worked