The Flower Thief and Other Tales of Yalda - 5. The Tale of Two Little Reeds - Fourth Scroll

The Dough and the Window Light

Cira — second day of the week, associated with rhythm and learning.

First Flame, early morning.

Several dawns had passed.

The city had dried. Cedric had said nothing about the old monk near the baker’s row, and neither had the boys. But the silence between them had shifted—less a shield now, more a waiting breath.

They worked, rested, laughed—carefully.

Morning arrived pale and slow, pouring in through the high bakery windows in golden-grey sheets. It was Cira, second of the seven days—a day for learning, cycles, and rhythm—and the bakery hummed with that quiet intention.

The hearth had been restoked well before Solrise, and its warmth now reached through the floorboards, cozying the soles of their feet. Jaren had already tied his apron. He stood at the main worktable, sleeves rolled, forearms dusted in flour. A shallow bowl of risen dough rested beside him, faintly steaming from its warm nap under a cloth.

Ailin padded in quietly—but not invisibly. He wore another of Cedric’s oversized shirts; collar soft, cuffs rumpled, the morning light brushing gently across the smooth curve of his shaved head.

Jaren looked up and smiled.
“Good morning.”

Ailin’s fingers hesitated, then signed: You started without me.

“You looked like you needed a few more minutes of sleep,” Jaren replied. “But you’re just in time for the part I hate.” He gestured toward the dough.

Ailin came closer and rested his hand lightly on the edge of the table. “Kneading?”

Jaren nodded, smiling. “It always sticks to me.”

Ailin touched the dough. His palm pressed gently into it, folding it back on itself. Then again. Again. His movements were slow, precise—almost meditative. Jaren stepped in beside him, hands moving to the other side. Together, they worked in rhythm: push, fold, turn.

The dough sighed under their hands, warm and alive.

For a while, neither spoke. The sound of kneading was soft and steady—flour against wood, the breath of dough as it gave way beneath their palms.

Sunlight from First Flame spilled over Ailin’s face. Jaren watched it a moment—how it lit his lashes, how it warmed the hollows of his cheeks.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured.

Ailin glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. So are you.

They worked a while longer.

Then, without lifting his hands, Ailin said aloud, very softly:

“Together is better.”

Jaren looked at him, startled—but only for a second. He nodded.

“Yes. It is.”

Ailin’s hands stilled. Jaren’s followed. Their fingers, flour-dusted and warm, brushed in the middle of the dough.

Outside, the streets of Southmere were waking. The scent of the first loaves drifted through the open window. But there was only the table, the soft gold light, and the dough rising with quiet patience.

A shared task. A morning made whole.

The First Bell

Cira, midmorning. Brightwake, full light.

The bakery’s front room smelled of spice and warm sugar. Outside, the city moved into Brightwake—late morning’s full light—when even the bells felt sharper in the air.

Jaren stood behind the counter, palms pressed flat against the edge of the worn wood. His apron hung too long; strings wrapped twice around his narrow waist. Beside him, Ailin adjusted the linen collar of his shirt and gave the display tray a once-over. Three pear tarts, five nut-buns, four rounds of seed-bread, and the last two jam rolls. All perfectly aligned.

They had swept, wiped and restocked. They knew the theory. But this was different.

The door chimed.

Ailin flinched—just slightly—but did not step back.

A woman stepped in, wrapped in a shawl striped with rose and copper. Flour dusted her knuckles. Not a stranger—likely one of the early regulars.

She paused just inside the door, eyebrows raised at the sight of them.

“Well now,” she said. “You’re not the usual pair.”

Jaren swallowed. He wasn’t sure whether to nod or bow. He ended up doing both. Ailin offered a smaller, steadier nod.

The woman smiled. “New helpers?”

“Just for the season,” came Cedric’s voice from the back room. He stepped through the curtain, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly wind-tossed. “They’re better behaved than I ever was. Promise.”

The woman chuckled. “That’s not a high bar, dear.”

Cedric winked, then turned to Jaren and Ailin. “Go on. Take her order.”

Ailin looked at Jaren. Jaren hesitated, then stepped forward. “Seed-bread and a jam roll?” he asked softly.

The woman beamed. “Yes, dear. Exactly.”

Jaren turned to Ailin, who already had the bread wrapped and the roll in a paper pouch. His fingers moved smoothly—no fumbles, no need for words.

When they handed over the parcel, the woman reached into her satchel, then paused. “Keep the coin,” she said gently. “First days are worth something more.”

Jaren managed a quiet, “Thank you.” Ailin blinked, surprised but not unsettled.

As the woman left, she gave Cedric a look of fond approval. “You’ve done well.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Cedric said, arms crossed loosely. “They showed up. That was enough.”

The next customer came in with a child in tow. Then an old man with a cane and a fondness for nut-buns. Each time, Jaren’s hands grew steadier. Ailin missed nothing.

By Zenithrest, the tray was nearly empty. Jaren had memorized the coin drawer’s rhythm. Ailin knew which customers asked about Lysander and which ones preferred extra parchment wrap.

They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to. A glance, a nod, a brush of shoulders said enough.

But when the lull came, and they stood side by side watching steam curl from the teapot, Jaren whispered:

“We did it.”

Ailin turned, wide-eyed.

“We did it,” Jaren said again, this time with a soft, incredulous laugh.

Ailin didn’t answer aloud. But he reached out and tapped Jaren’s sleeve, then signed simply:

Yes.

And for the first time, the bell above the door sounded like welcome, not warning.

Don’t Pour the Tea Backwards

Cira, early afternoon. Kindlinglight, pre-dusk

The bakery had quieted after the midmorning rush. The last pear tart was gone—claimed by a girl with a painted satchel and a sharp eye—and Cedric had declared a short, noble break before Kindlinglight began.

The four of them sat in the back room near the hearth. Steam curled from a chipped teapot painted with violets. Jaren and Ailin sat side by side—still a little stiff in the posture of guests, but more at ease than they’d been just a few days ago.

Lysander, cross-legged with his satchel beside him, poured with ceremonial precision. One hand on the spout, the other bracing the lid. He poured last for himself.

“Yaldan tea rituals have a dozen rules,” he said mildly. “Most of which only matter if my grandmother is watching.”

“Or a Watcher with something to prove,” Cedric added, slouched with a biscuit hanging from his mouth like a pipe.

Lysander ignored that. “But the idioms are better. If you want to understand people here, it helps to learn what they say when they’re not trying to sound important.”

He sipped, then raised a brow. “For instance: Don’t pour the tea backwards.”

Jaren frowned. “What does that mean?”

Cedric grinned. “It means, don’t mess up something simple and pretend it’s genius.”

“More literally,” Lysander said, “pouring with your left hand or spilling the first cup means you’re distracted—or insincere.”

Ailin signed, People really notice that?

“Here they do,” Cedric said, crunching his biscuit. He’d picked up a few hand signs from the Temple language. “Yaldans are born tea critics.”

“You once poured tea with your foot,” Lysander muttered.

Cedric looked pleased. “Dramatic reading. The cup deserved it.”

Lysander turned to Ailin and Jaren. “Another phrase you’ll hear: That’s a goose in a scholar’s hat.”

Ailin snorted softly.

Cedric leaned forward. “That one’s my favorite. It means someone’s pretending to be clever when they aren’t. You say it when your uncle starts quoting bad poetry, or when a teacher mispronounces a word and doubles down.”

“Which Cedric has never done,” Lysander said dryly.

Jaren looked down into his teacup, smiling despite himself.

Ailin signed, Are there kind ones, too?

Lysander considered. “Yes. A warm roof for two is warmer than gold.”

Cedric’s voice softened. “That one’s from the southern hills.”

“It means,” Lysander said, “sharing comfort is better than hoarding wealth. Especially in winter. Or… any time someone shows up with nothing but silence.”

Jaren glanced at Ailin, who nodded—almost imperceptibly. Then Ailin signed, Do you know any we could use? Not about us. For us.

Lysander’s expression shifted—less scholar, more companion. He tilted his head thoughtfully.

Then, softly, he said, “The reeds bend toward each other when the storm comes.”

Cedric stopped chewing.

“It means,” Lysander continued, “those who suffer together understand each other. Even in silence.”

Jaren looked at Ailin. Ailin looked back.

They both smiled—quietly, like it was something sacred.

Cedric cleared his throat. “Well. Now that we’ve been proverbially undone—anyone want another biscuit?”

Jaren raised a hand. Ailin nodded.

Lysander poured more tea. Outside, the shadows lengthened toward Duskgold, and the lamplighters began their rounds.

Inside, four boys shared warmth, humor, and just enough silence to let it all settle.

Evening Reflection

Solen, the day of work and care — Starcall, early evening.

Downstairs, the farmhouse glowed in the soft hush of Starcall, as Cedric and Lysander lingered by the hearth. They spoke quietly, the embers casting gentle warmth on their faces.

“They’re adjusting faster than I expected,” Lysander said, voice low.

“Ailin’s laughter in the bakery yesterday... it surprised me,” Cedric replied, his tone searching. “Like sunlight breaking through clouds.”

“Still,” Lysander murmured, eyes narrowing slightly, “there’s a quiet shadow beneath it all—one that lingers longer than you expect.”

Cedric looked up, meeting Lysander’s gaze. “They carry the weight of silence. But maybe here…maybe they can learn to speak again. Not just with words, but with everything.”

Lysander smiled faintly. “You always were the optimist.”

Cedric shrugged, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “Someone has to be.”

They sat back, letting the quiet stretch between them. The hearth crackled gently, casting warm light on the table.

After a moment, Cedric leaned forward, elbows resting on the worn wood.
“Do we even know what they’ve really lost?” he asked. “Not just their home, or their voices—but the parts of themselves that got buried along the way?”

Lysander’s gaze stayed on the fire.
“It’s more than silence,” he said. “It’s erasure. Their names, their movements, the shape of their days—taken and rewritten.”

Cedric’s fingers tensed. “And now we’re asking them to build something new. From broken pieces. What if it’s not enough? What if the fear never leaves?”

Lysander’s voice dropped to almost a whisper.
“Fear doesn’t vanish. It waits—in the quiet, in the cold. But so does warmth. So does choice. If we give them that, maybe it becomes stronger than the fear.”

Cedric let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I want them to believe that. To really believe it.”

Lysander reached across the table, fingertips brushing Cedric’s wrist. “They will. Because they have you. And because they have each other.”

Cedric’s smile was small but genuine. “And you.”

Lysander’s grin was sly. “I’m their secret weapon.” They laughed quietly, the weight between them lifting just a little, replaced by a fragile, shared hope.

Quiet Hours

Solen, the day of work and care. Starcall into Duskgold, late evening.

Jaren sat by the window, tracing a finger along the cool glass. The city lights blurred behind a soft mist. Ailin joined him quietly, close enough that their shoulders touched.

For a while, they said nothing. The hum of the sleeping city filled the silence.

Then Ailin spoke, voice low. “Do you think we can keep building this? The life we want?”

Jaren met his gaze. “I don’t see another way. Not after everything.”

Ailin reached for his hand—tentative, steady. “It’s scary.”

Jaren nodded. “It is. But with you… it feels possible.”

Ailin smiled—a small, uncertain thing that grew warmer in the dim light. “Together, then.”

“Together.”

They leaned into the quiet, breath shared, another thread stitched between past and future.

The days passed like ripples—gentle, constant. Jaren and Ailin learned to find each other in small moments: a glance over a rising loaf, a quiet touch, a word held between them like light.

A Name Spoken Aloud

Auryn, the day of renewal and vows — the work-hour of First Flame

One afternoon, folding linen by the hearth, Jaren looked up to find Ailin watching him, lips parted.

Ailin hesitated. Then, softly: “I want to try again.”

Jaren stilled. “Try what?”

Ailin’s fingers trembled. He shaped the air carefully.

“Your name.”

Jaren swallowed. “Do you want me to say yours?”

Ailin nodded, eyes bright with hope.

Jaren said it, steady and clear. “Ailin.”

A soft joy dawned in Ailin’s face—so unexpected, it scattered every shadow they'd carried.

Then, shy but certain, Ailin answered: “Jaren.”

Their names became a language—new, fragile, real. Not mere sounds; belonging.

Hands clasped, they let the silence hold them.

Trust, they understood, would take time.

But it had begun.