The sound of a doorbell resonated
through the dusty building, followed by silence. It
was a silence of solitude, a silence of old decrepit
buildings with tall ceilings and cobwebs and a fine
coating of dust, bittersweet and forgotten.
There was a creak. The slide of a chair
from behind a desk, the groan of old bones. The
man opened his eyes— strangely reflective like the
exoskeleton of a beetle, or the shine of polished
onyx.
Visitors. It had been a while. A smile
etched itself onto the deep grooves of his face. With
a languidness like a river carving out a canyon, he
got up and walked to the door. When he opened it,
the porch light washed a family in its yellow glow.
The little girl was maybe eight and her brother
about ten. They had the same muddy brown hair,
though the girl’s was in a long braid down her back,
strands falling out to frame her face. The boy’s golden
eyes were closed off and wary while the girl’s green ones
were round and open, drinking in the world with a hungry
intensity.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said, with
warmth. “It is always a pleasure to have visitors.
How may I help you?”
The man glanced at the women—his wife,
most likely—in deference. The woman pursed her
lips. She had a severe air about her, tall and imperious.
Her eyes were gold too, but not wary—calculating. Like a bird of prey.
He knew what they saw: an old man, short
and gnome-like, with a snowy white beard and thinning
hair. A crooked pair of spectacles perched on
his nose as he peered up at them from behind the
door frame. No doubt they found him strange; it
only made his smile wider. His teeth were crooked,
but not unclean.
“Hello,” said the woman, not without confidence,
but with the sort of trepidation one might
have when addressing a strange man the same
height as their eight-year old daughter. “We were
wondering…” she paused. “We were wondering if
you offer lodging of any sort?”
“We are so very sorry to intrude,” the man
added, with a guilty smile. He had two dimples and
chocolate-brown eyes that looked like they
belonged to someone much younger. “Our car ran
into some issues, and well, it’s a little bit late. For
the children.”
“Ah, I hate to turn away a weary traveler,
but I am afraid you have stumbled across a museum,
not a hotel.” The woman moved as if to turn away.
“But please! Come in!” He opened the door
wide just as a gust of wind rattled the building, a
cool current in the balmy night air.
Inside, someone must have lit the chandelier and
dusted the surfaces. The worst of the cobwebs were
now confined only to the highest nooks and corners.
The museum had an inviting look to it, like a well-loved,
well-used home. The only thing missing were the people.
Smells wafted from an open door along
with the sounds of tinkling cutlery and pans. Warm
and sweet, sugar and cinnamon, cookies and loaves of bread.
The girl stopped, transfixed, as though trying to place this
specific combination of smells in her memory. The
boy relaxed a bit, his shoulders drooping, and the
woman slightly softened her severe expression.
“My name is Alfred,” said the old man,
“and this is the Museum of Lost Hopes and
Dreams.”
At the sound of the museum’s name, the
woman frowned, her face stern again. Not wanting
to be impolite, however, she introduced herself.
“Nice to meet you.” An uncomfortable pause. “I am
Lenora, this is my husband, Ben, and my children
Alice and Charlie.”
“It’s been so long. It’s nice to have visitors.”
This did not in any way comfort Lenora.
“So if this is a museum, you do not offer
lodging, correct?”
“I’m afraid not, but it would be my pleasure to offer
you a short tour, if you wish. Free of
charge, of course.” Alfred glanced at the antique
watch on his wrist. “We close at midnight, but we
still have time.”
Lenora most definitely did not wish this.
She glanced at her husband for support, but he was
already enthusiastically nodding.
“That would be amazing! I love museums!”
He glanced at Lenora. “It’ll be good for the kids. It’s
educational!”
“But I don’t like museums,” Charlie whined.
Lenora looked like she might drag her family right
back outside, but at that moment Alice tugged on her sleeve.
“Mommy, can I have a candy?” she said in a stage
whisper, oblivious to all but the enticing possibility of sugar
somewhere in the near future.
Lenora blinked. There was a small table in the middle of the
lobby and a bowl with an exquisite arrangement of
little chocolates and caramels on top. She hadn’t seen them
walking in.
“Alice, no, you’ve had enough sweets today,” she
sighed.
“Oh, but of course she may!” interjected Alfred, and
Alice was upon the bowl in an instant.
Lenora’s severe eyebrows slanted down and drew
together but she let it pass.
“If the tour is short, I suppose we can humor your
father,” she conceded. “There can’t be too much harm in looking around.”
Ben beamed and Charlie frowned.
“Please, follow me,” said Alfred as he opened a door
Lenora was certain hadn’t been there moments before.
The family entered and the door closed shut behind
them—plunging them all into a thick, heavy, darkness.
“I can’t see!” said Charlie, his voice rising in pitch.
“Is there a light switch somewhere?” Lenora asked, as she
fought to keep her calm.
The darkness swirled into strange shapes, and she cursed
her imagination. She found the edge of a wall with her
fingers and grasped onto it.
“Ah, my apologies.” Alfred’s voice drifted over, just as
the room was filled with a blinding white light.
Lenora was too startled to scream. The light seared
her eyes and she squeezed them shut against the onslaught.
It was all over in a moment.
Lenora opened her golden eyes with caution. She was
in a bakery. Neither Alfred nor her family were to be seen.
She… she remembered this place—the thought tickled the
back of her mind.
Lenora remembered she was supposed to breathe,
and took a stuttering inhale. Once, twice, three times. The
bakery smelled of sugar, cinnamon and chocolate. It was a
small place, but inviting, with the walls painted a soft pink,
and behind the windows, a golden sunrise stained the sky.
Lenora frowned. Sunrise? But they’d entered that strange
museum before midnight.
“Ahem.”
She abruptly realized she’d been standing in line
behind a couple ordering some blueberry scones. How she’d
gotten there, she didn’t know.
She smiled at the baker, a tall, elderly woman in a
pink apron to match the walls. Lenora wasn’t particularly
hungry, but she didn’t want to look like a fool, either, so she
ordered a croissant. The baker gave her an amused look, but
said no more.
Lenora took a seat with a view of the sunrise, opened
the bag, and inhaled the familiar, comforting scent.
The bell on the door of the bakery gave a cheerful jingle and
a small girl entered with her mother. Lenora frowned
again. She couldn’t help thinking that the girl looked awfully
familiar. Come to think of it, the mother too. And…the baker?
Lenora felt a surge of dizziness.
“Oh Mom! But I don’t know what to get!”
“For heaven’s sake, just choose something!”
“But it’s impossible to pick!”
“If I may offer a word of advice, mademoiselle,” intervened the
baker, “I recommend starting with pain au chocolat. It’s a
French classic and everybody likes it.”
“What do you say, Lenora?”
“Merci, madame!”
Lenora froze and turned around to look into a pair of
golden eyes.
The scene dissolved into twisting gray shadows.
Lenora screamed.
When she dared to open her eyes again, she was in
a kitchen, sitting on a stool. The same mother and daughter
were baking an almond cake.
“How you ever learned to bake is a miracle,” sighed
the mother. “It certainly wasn’t from me.”
“I told you, I don’t need your help! I’m fine, Mom.
I know what I’m doing. It has to be perfect. I want to make
Grandma proud.”
“Well it would do you good to learn to clean up,” her mother
grumbled, glancing around the room. “You’ve trashed
the kitchen.”
“Mom! If you’re just gonna complain, go away!”
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get that.” The mother wiped her hands off on a
towel. “Try not to burn anything while I’m gone.”
“Mom!”
She came back a moment later, with another woman,
nearly identical to herself.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Auntie!” The girl laughed.
“You’re early!” She was holding an egg in one hand. Her broad
smile slowly vanished as she beheld her mother and aunt’s
somber expressions.
Her hand started trembling. “No.”
“I’m so sorry,” said her aunt. “I know you were looking
forward to sharing that pie with her.”
The egg dropped and cracked open, viscous liquid
spreading all over the floor. The girl was staring at a point in
the distance, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow
breaths, devoid of oxygen.
She blinked. “S—s—sorry.”
This time, when the landscape dissolved, Lenora
wasn’t surprised.
The same kitchen. The same daughter. The same
mother. The daughter with her head in her hands, staring
blankly at a sheet of math problems. The mother making
scrambled eggs.
“Have you had breakfast, Lenora?”
“No.”
“Want some eggs?”
“No thank you.”
Lenora turned around. She didn’t want to witness it.
This—this she remembered all too well. She knew what would
happen next. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memory
away. It didn’t work.
“What if you try baking something, hmmm?”
“No.”
“Pancakes? You love pancakes.” A note of desperation. “Try, at least?”
Lenora remembered it. She remembered the recipe, handwritten
because her grandmother always wrote her
recipes by hand, in long flowing strokes. She remembered
cracking the eggs—but it wasn’t the eggs this time. It was the
vanilla extract. Shards of sparkling glass on the floor after the
bottle slipped from her grip.
“Lenora!” A shriek. “Are you alright?”
She remembered shaking her head, retreating back to her
seat. “It’s just not the same. Not without…without her.”
Lenora kept her eyes squeezed shut, but a single,
determined tear slid down one cheek. She stayed like that for
a long time.
“Mom? Mom!” A girl was tugging on her sleeve.
“Alice.” She smiled, a little disoriented. She was back
at the museum and the lights were on, illuminating a room
filled floor to ceiling with paintings of every kind.
“Can we go back, please? I’m bored.”
“Alice,” Lenora asked, “Have you ever wanted to
bake?”
Alice’s green eyes widened in disbelief. “Bake? As in
cookies, and—and cakes, and pies?” Lenora felt a smile stretch
the corners of her mouth, and nodded.
“What do you think of almonds?”
Alice made a face. “Bitter.”
“Bittersweet, when you put them in a cake. But you’ll
find that many things in life are more than sweet and salty,
my little dessert connoisseur. The bitter is what helps us
appreciate the sweet all the more.