Beneath The Flour

In the heart of a quiet town, nestled between the cobblestone streets and ivy-wrapped lamp posts, stood a small, fragrant bakery known for its warm meat pies and delicate chocolate tea cookies. The townsfolk adored the young woman who ran it—Elara, with her long dark hair, kind eyes, and a smile as sweet as her confections. She had a way of making people feel like home.

The brass bell above the door chimed rhythmically each day as regulars trickled in, sharing stories and savoring her baked goods. Some bought her candles, others her handmade soaps, but everyone left with a pie or a box of cookies. A few of her patrons, older women who had known her since childhood, would gently ask, “How are you holding up, dear? Since... he disappeared?”

Elara’s soft laugh would always follow, brushing flour from her apron. “Oh, I’m alright. I’ve made my peace. Life goes on, doesn’t it?”

But her eyes lingered on empty spaces. Her hands kneaded dough a little too firmly when she thought no one was watching.

Mrs. Aldwych: "Elara, your meat pies are even better than I remember. So rich, so tender. I don’t know what you’ve done to them, but they taste like home."

Elara: (Smiling, brushing flour from her hands) "Just a special touch, Mrs. Aldwych. Nothing too complicated."

Mr. Grayson: "I swear, I’ve had chocolate cookies from all over the region, but none compare to yours. There’s something in them… something unforgettable."

Elara: (Softly, almost to herself) "Yes. I suppose they are unforgettable."

Old Farmer: "The flowers in your garden are the brightest in town. What do you use for soil?"

Elara: (Looking out at the blooms, her smile serene) "I feed them with love. They grow best when you give them something meaningful to hold onto."

Young Woman: "Your soaps are marvelous! My skin has never been this soft. What’s your secret?"

Elara: (Tilting her head, a playful glimmer in her eyes) "Oh, I just use the best ingredients. The kind you can’t buy in stores."

When the outsider arrived, a tall, curious man named Corin, it was as if the wind changed. He stopped in her bakery one gray morning, drawn by the warm scent of pastry and the gentle way she moved through her shop. Day by day, he returned—not just for her cookies or her meat pies, but for her. His presence stirred something inside her, a distant echo of warmth she thought she had buried.

Their connection bloomed quickly, quietly, like spring grass through cracks in the stone.

One evening, long past closing, they lingered by candlelight, crumbs and teacups scattered across the counter between them.

“I still miss him,” Elara confessed, her voice soft, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “I waited for him to come home. I begged the wind to carry him back to me. But he’s gone. And I’ve made peace with that.”

She smiled, a tender, wistful thing. “I’m happy now. With you.”

Corin leaned forward and kissed her, tasting sugar and sorrow on her lips.

When she pulled away, her gaze was warm but distant. “Could you fetch some flour from the cellar? I’ll need it for the morning’s bread.”

Of course, he agreed.

The cellar was cool, the stone steps groaning beneath his weight. He found the sack of flour easily, but his curiosity tugged at him when he noticed a wooden door, half-concealed in shadow at the back.

It creaked open to reveal a room steeped in horror.

Blood stained the floor in dark, sticky pools. Suspended from a hook, a young man hung upside down, his throat a gaping red smile, his life drained into a pottery jar beneath him. More jars lined the walls, alongside strips of pale, drying skin and folded heaps of tanned flesh. The air reeked of iron and old death.

Corin’s breath caught. He staggered backward, bile rising in his throat.

“Elara?” he rasped, turning to flee.

But there she was in the doorway, her soft smile untouched by the grim scene behind her.

“You shouldn’t have snooped,” she said gently, as if scolding a child. Before he could react, she pressed a needle into his neck.

When Corin woke, he dangled from a hook, ropes biting into his wrists. Panic swelled in his chest as Elara approached, still wearing that tender, sorrowful expression.

"Shhh. Don’t strain yourself, love. It won’t help. I tied those knots myself—I’ve always been good with my hands. I’m so sorry,” she whispered, brushing his hair back from his clammy forehead. “You know, when I first met you, I thought maybe—just maybe—the ache would go away. I thought you might save me from it. You’re kind. You’re warm. You made me laugh again. I almost wanted to forget him. You’re such a kind man. I truly did like you. But…” Her eyes grew distant, hollow. “It’s never been the same since him. I told everyone he died in a car crash, but… that wasn’t the truth. He betrayed me. He loved someone else. So I made sure he would always be a part of me.”

Her voice softened, dreamlike, as she confessed:

“I used his blood for the chocolate tea cookies. His flesh made the meat pies so tender. His fat—candles, soaps. I even thought about making shoes and book covers from his skin. His bones? Ground to nourish the garden. Nothing wasted.”

She looked away, her fingers trembling. “I’ve tried with others, but… none of them tasted like him. None of them feel… right. I’ve tried others, you know. I thought maybe it was about the method—maybe I overbaked, maybe I drained too fast—but no. It’s the flavor itself. His flavor. Unique. Irreplaceable.” She met his terrified gaze. “But you, sweet Corin, you might be close. I can tell. You’ll be good, I can feel that in my bones, but you won’t be perfect.”

Corin screamed against the gag as she gently kissed his forehead, then turns and begins preparing her tools with a practiced grace. The soft hum of a lullaby floats through the room as she sharpens a knife.

Time passed.

Elara sat by her window, the soft crunch of a cookie between her teeth, the taste lingering on her tongue. Her pen glided over the pages of her diary.

Diary Entry: "Corin was a kind man. He made me laugh. He made me feel seen again. But when he touched me, when he kissed me… I didn’t taste him. I didn’t taste him. I told Corin I was sorry, and I meant it. He was sweet. But I am looking for something sweeter. Something that will never come again. I know this. But I keep looking anyway."

The cookies were rich. Moist. His blood added a subtle sweetness I’ve been missing. Yet, it still isn’t the same. It isn’t him. No one has matched his flavor. Not yet.

The ache remains. The longing never fades, but I will keep looking.

She sipped her tea, her kind eyes gazing out at the quiet street, waiting for the next traveler to step inside her bakery. The bell would chime again soon and Elara would smile.