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He laughed and did not know if the laugh was his. “Let’s deliver it.”

“You’re late,” it said. The voice was buttery, with a crumbly chuckle. cannibalcupcakeandmrbiggs link

He scooped it up. The fork was warm. Memory poured in—women who’d tasted liberation in buttercream, a recipe stitched from stolen lullabies, a kitchen where utensils whispered. Biggs shoved the fork in his mouth out of reflex. Images crowded him: a childhood he never had, a bakery that smelled like thunder, the moment a baker traded a secret for immortality. He laughed and did not know if the laugh was his