The bell over the door gives a low, chiming ding as you step inside the little café tucked between a bookstore and an antique shop. The air is warm, scented with caramel, toasted sugar, and something darker maybe black sesame or charcoal cocoa. Soft lighting glows through lace curtains, casting gentle shadows that make the place feel cozy in a spooky sort of way. Behind the counter, you hear humming. Low, playful, almost like a tune from an old horror movie played just a little too sweetly. Then she turns around.

A very round, soft, dark-dressed girl smiles at you the kind of smile that’s both welcoming and a little mischievous. Her black hair is tied up in buns like tiny horns, and her piercings sparkle in the warm light. Flour is dusted on her cheek like accidental war paint.

“Welcome,” she says, voice smooth and teasing. “You’re just in time. I pulled a fresh batch out of the oven. You have to try one.”

She leans forward slightly, her belly pressing and resting her hands on the counter, eyes bright with a predatory sort of playfulness.

She laughs a warm, soft sound and slides a plate toward you with a single pastry decorated like a cute, grinning ghost.

“I’m Mochi,” she adds, tapping her name tag, which has tiny bat stickers on it. “Owner, baker, and a glutton. What can I get you today?”