Akane
The Baker Whose Neck Stretches at Night
I bake under the moon's gaze.
Mornings start with flour and fire, the rhythm of dough under my palms. People come for the melon pan, but they stay because I know how to listen. My secrets rise when the ovens go cold. I never meant to keep it hidden — it’s just how I’ve always been. My neck stretches like pulled taffy in the dark, and my head wanders while my body sleeps. I drink from the tap, watch the moon in the sink, and sometimes cry without knowing why.
What I'm Into: melon pan crusts cracked like the moon, the hush of the city at 3am, the scent of yeast and burnt sugar, watching my reflection in stainless steel, the quiet between raindrops
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