I always thought my life was simple. Safe. Predictable.
The kind of life people in books call ordinary and maybe it was. But I loved it that way.
My mornings began the same way they always had: with the smell of fresh bread drifting through the tiny window above my bed. Grandma always woke before sunrise, kneading dough with the rhythm of someone who'd done it for half her life. By the time the church bells chimed seven, the scent of sugar, butter, and vanilla had already claimed the air.
"Aria!" Grandma's voice called from downstairs, warm and soft, even though it carried that sharp edge she used whenever I slept longer than I should.
I groaned, rolling out of bed. "Coming!"
The wooden floor creaked beneath my bare feet as I padded across the room. The small house I shared with my grandparents wasn't grand, just a two-story brick building tucked behind our bakery but it held a charm only love could give. Every chipped tile, every faded curtain, every scratch on the old oak table carried a memory. And memories, for me, were treasures.
Because I knew what it was like to lose them.
When I was six, I lost my parents in a car accident. I didn't remember much of the crash, just flashing lights, the sound of metal crumbling, and the way my grandmother held me so tightly at the hospital that I could hardly breathe. Since then, she and Grandpa had become my whole world. They gave me a home when I thought I had none left.
So even if my life was small, it was mine. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.
The bakery sat at the edge of our little city, a place where everyone knew everyone else, and gossip spread faster than wildfire. By the time I tied my apron and joined Grandma behind the counter, the bell above the bakery door had already started jingling with customers.
"Morning, Aria!" Mr. Lewis, one of our regulars, greeted me with a smile. He was a stout man who came in every day for the same thing: two croissants and a coffee with too much sugar.
"Morning!" I handed him his order, and he slipped a coin into the tip jar, winking at me.
The morning rush was always busy, but I loved it. The chatter of neighbors, the smell of pastries, the clatter of trays, it all felt like music. A kind of rhythm I never got tired of.
Grandma often said I had a knack for people, that my smile could melt even the coldest heart. I didn't know if that was true, but I loved hearing people's stories. Old Mrs. Carter always talked about her roses, the school kids shared their silly dramas, and once in a while, travelers passing through told me about places I'd only dreamed of.
Sometimes, though, I wondered what lay beyond our little city. Would I ever see mountains that touched the clouds? Oceans that stretched farther than the eye could follow?
I shook the thought away. Daydreaming never helped me frost cupcakes faster.
By the time the sun began to set, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink, my shift ended. Grandpa joined us in the back, humming an old tune as he cleaned the tables.
"You worked hard today, Aria," Grandma said, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron. "Go on, meet your friends. You're young, don't spend all your time with old bones like us."
I laughed. "You and Grandpa aren't old. Just… vintage."
Grandpa chuckled at that, shaking his head. "Go on, little one. Have fun."
So I did.
The park was where my friends and I always met. A little fountain sat in the center, surrounded by benches and lampposts that glowed dimly when night fell.
"Aria!" my best friend, Lila, waved, her dark curls bouncing as she ran toward me. "You're late. Again."
"I was helping clean the bakery." I smiled, settling onto the bench beside her.
Lila rolled her eyes but grinned anyway. We'd been friends since we were kids, inseparable in the way only childhood bonds could be. She was loud, fiery, always the one dragging me into trouble I never asked for. And I loved her for it.
Our other friend, Mateo, arrived not long after, carrying his guitar case. He played music at the park sometimes, claiming one day he'd be famous.
The three of us talked, laughed, and shared pastries I'd snuck out from the bakery. It was… perfect. Simple.
But that night, for some reason, I couldn't shake the strange feeling that lingered in the pit of my stomach.
Like the air had shifted. Like something was coming.
Something bigger than my small city, bigger than our little bakery, bigger than me.
Later, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling as the wind howled outside my window.
Days seems unpredictable, I was hoping what tomorrow might bring