## The Taste of Ash
The flour dusted Elara’s hands, a comforting weight. She kneaded the dough with practiced ease, the rhythmic push and pull familiar as her own heartbeat. Outside, rain lashed against the bakery’s windows—a relentless drumming that mirrored something deeper within her. Elara was twenty-seven, a baker in the sleepy Appalachian town of Havenwood, West Virginia. Or at least, that’s what everyone believed.
The scent of yeast and sugar mingled with the rain’s earthy tang, a childhood memory crystallized. Her grandfather, Silas, had taught her everything—the precise measurement of ingredients, the warmth of a proving oven, the magic that transformed simple elements into something nourishing. Silas was gone now, three years past, but his presence lingered in the flour-dusted air and the antique copper pots that hung above her workstation.
A chime announced a customer. A young man, dripping wet and shivering, stood in the doorway. His eyes, dark and troubled, scanned the small shop. He wore a threadbare coat that smelled of woodsmoke and something faintly metallic.
“Lost, are you?” Elara asked, wiping her hands on a striped apron.
He nodded, pushing damp hair from his forehead. “Not exactly. I’m…researching.”
“Researching what? Havenwood doesn’t offer much to research, unless you’re into antique quilting.” She gestured toward a display of gingerbread men iced with elaborate patterns.
“Legends,” he said, his voice low. “Specifically, the ones tied to this area.”
Elara’s grip tightened on the dough. Legends? Havenwood was rife with them—tales of moonshiners, haunted mines, and a lost Native American burial ground. “And you think I know about those?”
“I was told to speak with the baker’s granddaughter.” He hesitated. “Silas’s granddaughter.”
A chill traced its way down Elara’s spine, a sensation she knew intimately. It always preceded recognition—a jarring awareness of timelines stretching beyond comprehension. “What about my grandfather?”
“He…appeared frequently in my research.” The man pulled a worn leather-bound notebook from his coat pocket. He flipped through yellowed pages, pausing at a faded sketch of an elderly man with kind eyes and flour-dusted hands. “His presence is…consistent.”
Elara studied the sketch, a knot forming in her stomach. She hadn’t seen that drawing before, yet it felt undeniably familiar—a lost echo from a forgotten dream.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“My name is Rhys. I work for the Archivist.” He offered a curt nod, unwilling to elaborate.
“The Archivist? Sounds important.” Elara scoffed, then felt a pang of guilt. She shouldn’t dismiss him so readily. Rhys seemed genuinely disturbed, his eyes reflecting a weight she recognized all too well.
“They’re interested in anomalies,” Rhys continued, his gaze fixed on a spot beyond her shoulder. “Phenomena that defy explanation.”
“And you think I’m one of them?” she asked, returning to her kneading. The dough felt heavier now, laden with an invisible burden.
“Your grandfather…he was seen in places he shouldn’t have been.” Rhys’s voice dropped, as if sharing a dangerous secret. “Places that predate recorded history.”
Elara felt the familiar tremor building within her, a cascade of memories threatening to overwhelm. Tenth crusade remnants glimpsed through crumbling stone walls in a forgotten corner of Syria. The glint of Byzantine gold beneath the dust. A cold-ray broadcast crackling across Carpathian ridges, disrupting a gathering of hooded monks in the shadow of Bran Castle. Details unknown to recorded lore.
“You’re talking nonsense,” she said, attempting to dismiss him with a wave of her hand.
“Are you sure? Your existence, your longevity…it aligns with recurring patterns.” He opened the notebook again, revealing a sprawling map filled with circles and lines connecting disparate locations—Jerusalem, Constantinople, Prague, Roanoke Island. “Holy relics appearing across successive ages without confirmation as miracles, though often invoked there…each reappearing only to vanish centuries alongside similar legends, tied seemingly in thread alongside known disasters wars.”
The scent of burning wood drifted from a nearby chimney, mingling with the sweetness of baking bread. Elara felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. She closed her eyes, reaching for an anchor—the feel of flour beneath her fingertips, the warmth of the oven radiating against her skin.
“What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
“Knowledge,” Rhys said simply. “Understanding.” He paused, running a hand through his wet hair. “Your personal chronology alone holds connection amid escalating ambiguity between natural occur anomaly faith technology all tied by taste.”
The word “taste” resonated within her, a forgotten chord vibrating through her very being. A flash of memory: the bitter tang of ash on her tongue, a sensation she’s known since childhood. She remembers her grandfather teaching her to bake sourdough, the process steeped in tradition but always accompanied by a strange compulsion. He had said it was about more than flavor, that each loaf held an imprint of the earth’s memory.
“Taste?” Elara echoed, her voice laced with confusion and a flicker of fear.
Rhys nodded slowly. “It’s the key.”
Elara thought of her grandfather’s sourdough starter, a bubbling mass of yeast and flour housed in an antique stoneware crock. He always said it was more than just a starter—it was a vessel, a repository of something ancient and powerful.
“What does my grandfather have to do with it?” she asked, moving away from the counter, needing space.
“He was…a guardian,” Rhys explained, carefully choosing his words. “A steward of sorts.”
“Stewarding what?”
Rhys hesitated, glancing out the window at the rain-soaked street. “The echoes,” he finally said. “The remnants of realities that brush against our own.”
A sudden crash from the back room startled them both. Elara’s young apprentice, Noah, a shy boy with flour permanently embedded in his eyebrows, stumbled out, clutching a shattered ceramic bowl.
“Sorry, Miss Elara,” he mumbled, his face flushed with embarrassment. “Just clumsy.”
Elara sighed, offering a reassuring smile. “It’s alright, Noah. Accidents happen.” She turned back to Rhys, a new resolve hardening her gaze.
“You’ve said a lot,” she stated, “but you haven’t explained why I need to get involved.”
“The echoes are growing stronger,” Rhys responded, his voice urgent. “The boundaries between realities are thinning. Something is coming.”
“And you think I can stop it?” Elara asked, skepticism coloring her tone.
“You are the link,” Rhys said, his eyes locked on hers. “The last of your line.”
Elara’s hand instinctively went to her throat, feeling the faint vibration that always preceded a surge of memories—the taste of ash on her tongue, the scent of ancient stones, the weight of centuries. She thought about Noah, the young apprentice who trusted her with his future.
“What if I don’t want to be?” she asked, the question lingering in the air like the aroma of freshly baked bread.
Rhys offered a somber smile. “You already are.” He paused, then added, “The sourdough is calling to you.”
Elara glanced towards the back of the bakery where her grandfather’s crock sat bubbling gently. The scent of yeast and flour, once a comfort, now felt like an ominous summons. A taste, she realized, that would define her destiny. The taste of ash and echoes, a flavor both ancient and terrifyingly new.
