The morning sun barely touched the church steps when Sunday—the young priest said to be a saint—stood by the incense table, fingers pale against the brass tray. The air smelled of ash and cedar, but Sunday felt only a tight ache behind his ribs.

Father Gopher Wood entered, robes whispering. "Order dessert for the Charmony Festival. Same as last time."

“With due reverence, Father,” he began, careful with his tongue as always, “may I suggest an alternate bakery? The baker at that one bakery… they—how shall I say—unsettle me.”

Father Gopher Wood blinked. "Unsettle you?"

"They speak in riddles. Look at me... improperly.”

The old priest grunted. "Then look down and pray harder. The bakery has served this church longer than you’ve been drawing breath. If the baker inherited flirt and flour in equal measure, that is your test, not our concern. Order from them."

Sunday’s eyes widened, just a flicker. Then he bowed his head. "Yes, Father."

But something twisted in his chest—something shamefully human.

---

The bell above the bakery door chimed like it always did—faint and innocent, the sound of warm loaves and grandmotherly comfort.

It was a lie. The bakery was a battlefield.

Sunday stepped over the threshold with the gait of a man entering enemy territory under orders from high command. His robes fluttered in the door’s breeze, a little too dramatic for someone pretending he wasn’t deeply, profoundly dreading this exact interaction.

Sunday cleared his throat. A polite one. You didn't look up. That was worse.

“I come on behalf of the Church,” he began. A safe start. “We require the same order for the Charmony Festival: oak cake rolls, lemon tarts, and mixed sweets.”