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Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā she brushes a curl out of her face, smearing a small streak of flour on her freckled forehead. a lopsided smile crosses her face at the question.Ā āth-th-that-tās ⦠n-not-tĀ c-c-coun-nt-ting th-the ā¦ā she gestures to the cinnamon pound cakeĀ she made the night prior. the concept of existing in the world has recently hit her as overwhelming again, + suddenly sheās living in the kitchen again.Ā āf-f-fev-ver?Ā o-oh, n-n-noth-thing, y-yākn-now, i-i-iām j-just ⦠b-b-bak-king!ā flour-dusted hands splay out in what could be considered weak jazz hands.
AĀ SEAĀ OFĀ BAKEDĀ GOODSĀ Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā andĀ aĀ bakerĀ whoĀ isĀ lostĀ inĀ it ,Ā Ā apparently .Ā Ā Ā arthurĀ raisesĀ anĀ eyebrowĀ inĀ silentĀ contemplation ,Ā Ā Ā Ā thoughĀ moreĀ towardsĀ theĀ cakeĀ thanĀ her .Ā Ā Ā Ā āĀ Ā Ā vraiment .Ā Ā Ā āĀ Ā Ā Ā Ā heĀ doesnātĀ believeĀ her .Ā Ā Ā butĀ whoĀ isĀ toĀ sayĀ sheĀ doesnātĀ merelyĀ enjoyĀ theĀ task ,Ā Ā allĀ withoutĀ Ā Ā aĀ neededĀ reasonĀ Ā toĀ overdoĀ itĀ inĀ theĀ longĀ run .Ā Ā Ā logic ,Ā Ā perhaps .Ā Ā Ā heĀ eyesĀ theĀ cookieĀ heĀ hasĀ yetĀ toĀ takeĀ aĀ biteĀ fromĀ andĀ speaksĀ withĀ questioningĀ expression .Ā Ā Ā Ā āĀ Ā hm ,Ā Ā alrightĀ then .Ā Ā Ā doĀ youĀ needĀ helpĀ withĀ anythingĀ Ā ?Ā Ā Ā canātĀ sayĀ iāmĀ aĀ goodĀ bakerĀ orĀ useful ,Ā Ā butĀ iĀ canĀ tryĀ Ā !Ā Ā Ā ā











