Mina kneads dough that no one eats.
Every morning, before the rest of Fluffletown stirs, she presses her palms into silence –
folds it once, twice, thump, stretch –
then tucks the loaf into the top cupboard, where the light is soft. Once a week, the cupboard is empty.
No crumbs. No note. Just a curl of steam, and the smell of something half-remembered.
No one asks where the bread goes. Mina wouldn’t answer anyway.
But every time someone in Fluffletown wakes up with a thought they didn’t have the night before –
a thought that feels like warm butter and exactly the right word