The next morning, I pulled the dough I'd prepared the night before out of the Void Pantry. It had fermented slowly, and it had risen exactly as I'd hoped — perfectly, beautifully. I pressed a finger gently into the surface, and it gave like a cloud.
I divided it into two portions. One for a walnut ciabatta, one plain. I crushed the walnuts I'd stored in the Void Pantry — the nut kind, not the fox kind, just to be clear — and folded in a spoonful of the honey I'd picked up yesterday.
While the oven preheated, I looked out the window. The curtains across the street were still drawn. I'd noticed light leaking through them late into the night, which meant she'd probably been working until dawn. I went looking for something to wrap the bread in and found a paper bag that would do. Deep in one of the drawers, tucked away and almost forgotten, was a roll of kraft paper Mom had left behind for gift wrapping.
The kitchen filled with the warm, sweet smell of honey and walnuts as the bread baked. I brewed a cup of tea and sat down at the table. My mind drifted back to yesterday — making risotto, eating it out in the clearing. Walnut wagging his tail with every bite. That strange, shimmering flower.
The forest was not an ordinary place. And I was beginning to understand its secrets, slowly, without rushing.
The oven timer went off. I pulled on my mitts and carefully lifted the ciabattas out. The crust was crisp; the inside, soft and just slightly moist. Perfect. I set the walnut ciabatta on the cooling rack and wrapped the two plain ones in the kraft paper, folding the edges with care.
It took more courage than I expected to ring the doorbell across the street.
I stood on her front step and hesitated — more than once. *What if she finds it annoying? Is this too forward? What if showing up out of nowhere just scares her?* But I rang it anyway. A small, bright chime carried through the door.
It took a while before she answered. She was wearing a comfortable hoodie, hair loosely pulled back. There was tiredness in her face, but her eyes were clear. She looked about my age — maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight.
"Um, hi..."
I spoke first.
"Oh — hi."
Her voice was calmer and softer than I'd expected. I lifted the paper bag slightly so she could see it.
"I'm your neighbor. I baked some bread this morning, and I made more than I can eat on my own — so I thought, if you'd like some..."
She looked surprised for a moment. This kind of neighborly gesture was probably unfamiliar to her. It was to me, too. I hadn't realized how nerve-racking it could be to simply hand something to someone.
"Oh... thank you. Really."
She took the bag carefully. Then she paused, and added quietly:
"Actually — was that smell coming from your place yesterday, too?"
"Yeah. I made mushroom risotto."
"I thought so. It smelled so good. I do most of my work at night, and... honestly, that smell made the night feel a little less lonely."
She smiled a little when she said it. I smiled back without meaning to. We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, then said our goodbyes and parted.
"I'm Lee Suhyeon, by the way. Would it be okay if I... kept letting the bread smells drift over?"
"Of course. I'm Kim Mina. Thank you so much for the bread — I'll enjoy every bite."
The door closed. I walked back to my house with my heart beating just a little faster than usual. Someone had told me that my cooking had made them feel less alone. That was a first. And somehow, that one small thing made the whole day feel like more than enough.
That afternoon, I headed into the forest with the walnut ciabatta.
When I reached the clearing, Walnut was already there waiting — but today was a little different. Beside him sat another small creature: a tiny bird with gray-tinted feathers. One of its wings looked injured; it couldn't fly properly and was perched on a rock, very still.
"Did you bring a friend?"
Walnut heard my voice and let out a small whine. I walked over carefully, tore the ciabatta into small pieces and gave some to Walnut, then filled a little bowl with water and set it beside the bird. The bird was wary, but when it saw the water, it edged closer and dipped its beak in.
*This one's going to need a name, too.*
I thought for a moment. Those gray feathers looked just like clouds on an overcast day.
"Cloudy. I'll call you Cloudy."
And just like that, I had a second friend in the forest. Cloudy still shied away from my hand, but watching Walnut settle comfortably beside me seemed to ease something in the little bird, little by little.
I sat on a rock and watched the two of them eat the ciabatta. This small clearing felt like my own secret table now. And the idea that it was slowly gaining more guests — that turned out to be a surprisingly happy thing.
On my way home, I set out one more small water bowl near the edge of the clearing. No telling who else might wander in someday.