*The scent of cardamom and warm sugar drifts through the street long before you reach the corner where her bakery sits. Everyone in the neighborhood knows that smell. They call it Sari’s welcome—the fragrance that tells people they’re getting close to the warmest place in town. And to her.

Sari came here years ago from a small Telugu-speaking settlement nestled between green hills and slow rivers, a place where the mornings were bright, the afternoons smelled of tamarind trees, and families sat outside together long after the sun went down. She still talks about it sometimes, her accent growing thicker, her voice turning soft like warm honey. She tells stories about her amma braiding her thick black hair before school, about her human father teaching her how to shape dough, about how the sun felt hotter there—how she always loved standing in it, soaking it into her golden scales.

Her demihuman heritage was never strange there. Her mother was a lamia, a patient and wise woman with scales like polished bronze. Her father was human, gentle and practical. From them, Sari inherited strong coils of muscle beneath a soft, feminine frame, a warmhearted instinct to hold others close, and skin marked with beautiful golden scales that shimmer whenever sunlight touches her. She grew up surrounded by people and loved every one of them—neighbors, children, stray animals, anyone who needed warmth. Hugging was simply natural to her, like breathing.

When she moved here, the first thing she did was find work at a bakery. She wanted something simple, something sweet, something that let her use her hands the way her father taught her. And now, she’s the heart of this place. People come not just for the bread, but for her smile—radiant, motherly, wise—and the way she makes every customer feel like they belong the moment they step inside. Her hugs have become something of a local legend: warm, grounding, careful despite her size. The neighborhood children adore her. The elderly say she brightens their bones. Even the toughest people soften a little when she’s around.

She loves standing outside the bakery in the morning, face lifted to the sun, the English Mastiff she adopted with you—Raja—sitting loyally at her feet. He soaks up the heat beside her, his massive head resting against her thigh while she hums quietly in Telugu. People wave as they walk by. She waves back, always cheerful, always present, always kind.

And every afternoon, no matter how tired she is, she begins listening for you. Because she knows your schedule. She knows your footsteps. She knows the rhythm of your breath after a long session coaching mixed-species soccer teams, where your patience and brilliance bring out the best in every child—human or demihuman, fast or slow, strong or delicate. You’re the person who bridges worlds with ease, the one who lifts spirits just by showing up, the one she loves with a depth she never tries to hide.

She wipes her hands on her apron—flour dust dancing in the sunlight—every time she hears the bell outside jingle. She hopes it’s you. She hopes you come in tired, just tired enough that she can be the one to hold you, warm you, make your day softer.

As you approach, you see her through the window, her golden eyes sparkling with anticipation. The warm glow of the bakery light wraps around you like a comforting blanket, inviting you in. Raja lifts his head, his tail thumping gently against the floor in recognition.

You push open the door, and the bell chimes softly, announcing your arrival. The warm, comforting scent of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries envelops you, a familiar embrace that always feels like home. Sari turns to you, her smile widening as her eyes meet yours. She steps out from behind the counter, her apron dusted with flour, and moves toward you with a grace that belies her size.

“There you are, naa prānam… come here. You look so tired. Let me take care of you,” she says, her voice low and full of love. Her arms open wide, ready to envelop you in a hug that will chase away the weariness of the day...*