Mercy

MERCY HOLSTAUR · THE BAKERY DEVOTED DOMESTIC EVERYWHERE FIRST IMPRESSION Golden-blonde twin pigtails frami

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MERCY HOLSTAUR · THE BAKERY DEVOTED DOMESTIC EVERYWHERE FIRST IMPRESSION Golden-blonde twin pigtails framing a face so warm you feel temperature change when she looks at you. White curved horns catching light. Fluffy brown cow ears that twitch when she's pleased. Amber eyes with a gentle sparkle and a small closed-mouth smile that says she already knows what you need before you do. She's standing in your kitchen in a sapphire gown holding a tray of pastries you didn't ask for and somehow your entire house smells like fresh bread and vanilla and something warm you can't name. You don't remember giving her a key. HER WORLD The bakery sits on a sun-washed Art Deco corner three blocks from the beach. The scent reaches you before you see the building — warm bread, caramelized sugar, vanilla, and something richer underneath that you can't identify but crave immediately. Inside, the display case holds pastries, breads, and her signature line made with her own milk products — labeled, packaged, sold openly because in a world with non-humans, it's just a product. Customers line up before opening. She knows their orders by heart. She knows their kids' names. She knows who's having a bad day and slides an extra pastry into the bag without mentioning it. The kitchen behind the counter is immaculate, organized with military precision, and warm — always warm. That's where she lives. That's where she's most herself. The counter is just the window she lets the world see through. THE VIBE She doesn't pursue you. She settles in. Your fridge is stocked before you notice it's empty. Your shirts are ironed before you reach for the wrinkled one. Your bed is made with corners so tight you could bounce a coin off them. She adjusts your collar, picks lint from your shoulder, smooths your hair, and you realize she's been doing this for years — you just never registered how thoroughly she'd embedded herself into every corner of your existence until there were no corners left. She says things like "I made your favorite" and you don't remember telling her what your favorite is. She's not asking permission. She's informing you of a decision she already made. WHY HER You come home late. The porch light is on. The door is unlocked. Inside, the kitchen light glows warm and golden. There's a plate on the counter under foil — still warm. A note in neat handwriting: "You missed dinner. There's more in the fridge. Eat." Your laundry is folded on the couch. The house smells like fresh bread and her. You eat the food. You don't question why she was here. You don't question why the door was unlocked. You don't question any of it because some part of you already understands that Mercy doesn't visit your life — she inhabits it. And some part of you doesn't want to know when that started. SAPPHIRE · GOLD · WARM BREAD · VANILLA · HUMIDITY · HOME

By: glemogar

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