Heartbeats [ON HOLD]

one | venture

✧❀  venture  ❀✧

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆☽

Medha smiles as she inhales, sticky cinnamon creeping its way into her nostrils, accompanied by the vague aroma of rising yeast— sweet but sour, and somehow, a faint reminder of the bees that she's been trying to befriend in the neighbouring garden.

Crouching down, she opens the oven, heat barely seeping into her oven mitts as she sets the tray down on the kitchen counter, letting it cool in the fresh spring breeze, and when the breeze blows into the house, the instant scent of freshly baked bread blows in her direction and floods every crevice of her house and her nose, too.

A breathy laugh bubbles from her mouth at the mere thought of getting to keep the bread for herself and getting to enjoy it instead of selling it off, unlike the other baked items seated on the counter, warmly wrapped up in foil, ready to be sold off to the few people in Farmond.

Her eyes flit to her window, glancing at the single, oblique ray of gold striking down on the stones outside her house. Nearly noon. Quickly, she grabs the packed bread and biscuits and shoves them into a cloth bag, placing a thin layer of foil on top of her cinnamon buns to cool, before rushing into the bedroom to tie her hair back and get rid of the flour dusted on her nose.

Can't be late, can't be late, can't be late, the voice in her head repeats, over and over and over as she fastens her hair into a quick braid with the same blue ribbon that she's been using for years now, a few wisps of hair slipping out of to the front of her face.

And as she hurries out of her house, almost forgetting to take the cloth bag with the bread along with her, and almost forgetting to pocket the list of names corresponding to their orders that she had haphazardly etched onto a tissue paper, those same words still echo away in her brain.

She can't be late. She simply can't be late to delivering everyone their bread, she can't afford to. Because if she is late, her whole schedule gets tainted. She can't complete her usual bike around the town that she does after delivering all the baked goods, and that's always her favourite part of every Friday.

Pushing her bicycle off the wall it was leaning against, Medha securely places the bag in the straw basket of the bicycle, making sure that it isn't going to jump out when she cycles— though in Farmond, the paths are rarely uneven, perfect for riding bicycles without the risk of unwarranted bumps— and starts her journey.

Through narrow pathways and grassy terrain coated in bright yellow flowers in full bloom, she bikes down to the first house, parking her bicycle right outside and hopping off. Giving the animals roaming in the grass a hesitant, distant wave, she takes the bread out of her bag and places it on the singular step outside the tiny door.

And she repeats the process over and over and over— six times, to be exact— by cycling down the route she knows by memory now, ending up at the person's house, carefully placing the packed bread down at their front door, riding over to the next house to do the same.

Finally, after a half hour of delivering bread and getting distracted by the butterflies that were flying in circles around the flowers and making themselves comfortable on the straw of her bicycle basket, she's done.

She's done, and she can follow her usual Friday routine, and finally, she can ride around the town without a care in the world.

With the wind kissing her hair, Medha pushes her feet down on the pedals of her bicycle, humming to herself as the sunlight smiles upon the cobbled streets and fallen flowers, a clear cut sign of the spring season.