Shards of Memory [English - Under Revision]

Chapter 5: Cookie Crumbs and Chaos

Skylane

Birdsong threaded through the curtains, the kind that sounds like optimism even when you're not convinced. I stretched until my toes touched cool sheet, then rolled out and let the morning routine strap me in: shower, moisturizer, mascara, hair twisted into a bun that looked effortless and took three pins and a prayer. Uniform, ribbon, socks, shoes. Armor, but polite.

Downstairs, the house was already humming. Dad was reading the business section like it was a thriller; Mom had her tablet propped beside a mixing bowl, scrolling a recipe she didn't need because she could make it with her eyes closed. She looked up as I kissed her cheek, the kind of smile that makes you feel forgiven for things you haven't done yet.

"Morning, love," she said. "Don't forget—Mrs. Clemente's dropping off the intramurals sponsorship forms after lunch. She'll look for you at the council office."

"Got it." The crown always has homework.

Dalyn skidded in, hair damp from a last-second shower, wolfed two strips of bacon like a cartoon, and slung his bag across his shoulder in one liquid motion.

"Helmet," Mom said without looking. He caught it midair, grinning. We were already halfway to the door when a thought snapped into focus.

"Wait! I forgot something." I thumped his back lightly.

"Make it quick," he said, already outside, already patient.

Kitchen. Drawer. Cookie jar—the heavy glass one with a blue lid. I'd baked last night when sleep felt optional and sugar felt like agency: brown butter chocolate chunk, flaky sea salt diamonds on top. I slid the jar into a plain paper bag, tucked a small ribbon around the handle because I'm me, and jogged back out.

When I stepped onto the porch, Dalyn's gaze dropped to the bag like it had confessed something.

"Who's that for?" One brow up; older-brother radar pinging.

"A special friend," I said, and let the corner of my mouth betray me.

"Special," he echoed, dragging the vowel until it sounded like a test. "Must be, if you baked."

He was grinning, though. Dalyn knows exactly how many favors I can be coerced into by butter and flour.

"He is," I said simply—because anything else would either be a lie or too much truth for a school morning.

He handed over my helmet. "Let's go, pastry chef."

We cut through cool air, the city's edges soft with early light. Crystal Academy rose ahead like a blue-and-white myth—gates clean and proud, crest shining, guards who'd known us since we were both shorter and more certain. The campus breathed in slow, leafy exhales: hedges trimmed into geometry, fountains throwing silver arcs, primary kids hopping two-for-one on hopscotch squares as if their feet already knew the pattern of the whole place.

Ryder was waiting by the main gate, one foot on the low planter, thumbs flying like he was trying to break a texting record. He tucked his phone away the instant he saw me, grin flipping from oh there you are to there you are in a heartbeat. He and Dalyn did their handshake—two slaps and a knuckle tap that had evolved over time like a bird-of-paradise dance—then Dalyn throttled off with a two-finger salute.

"Let me carry that," Ryder said, already sliding my backpack off one shoulder and catching the paper bag with the other like it was part of the package.

We merged into the hallway current. A couple of first-years called, "Hi, Queen!" with the stunned pride of people greeting a celebrity who might know their names. A brave sophomore chirped, "Hey, Kim-Ryder!" using his last name like an inside joke. Ryder winked; the poor kid forgot how legs worked for half a second.