The café appears only once a decade, perched on a cliff where the ocean forgets its own name. Its sign, written in seafoam script, reads: La Douleur Exquise—Open Until Forgotten.
Elara found it on the anniversary of her mother’s death, though she hadn’t meant to. She’d been chasing her dog, Mochi, through the fog when the scent of cardamom and burnt sugar stopped her cold. The door was ajar, and inside, a chandelier of frozen tears cast light over glass cases filled with pastries—each one labeled in cursive too elegant to read.
“Welcome,” said a voice like a cello’s lowest note. Behind the counter stood a man in a tailored waistcoat, his face half-hidden behind a veil of smoke. “I am Chef René. What do you hunger for?”
Elara hesitated. “I’m not hungry. I’m… lost.”
“Ah.” He gestured to a croissant glazed with honey. “Regret au Chocolat. Baked with the last words you wish you’d said. Eat it, and you’ll taste the moment. But be warned—once swallowed, the memory becomes mine.”
Elara’s throat tightened. She hadn’t spoken to her mother in three years when the cancer came. Their final conversation had been about laundry detergent.
“What if I don’t want to forget?”
René smiled, bittersweet. “Then you’ll linger here, like me.” He lifted his sleeve, revealing translucent skin threaded with silver. “I traded my death to run this place. Now I collect regrets to keep from fading.”
Mochi whined, pawing at the door. Outside, the fog had thickened into a wall.
“One bite,” René urged, sliding the croissant toward her. “Just one.”
The pastry was warm. When Elara bit in, the café dissolved.
She’s nineteen, arguing with her mother in a rain-soaked parking lot. “You don’t get it!” Elara shouts, clutching her college rejection letter. “You’ve never believed in me!” Her mother reaches out, but Elara slams the car door. The memory shifts—her mother alone at the kitchen table, writing a letter she’ll never send.
Elara gasped, tears salting her lips. The croissant was gone. So was the memory—she could still feel its shape, but the edges blurred, like a dream upon waking.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because sorrow is a currency here,” said René. “And I am… bankrupt.” He opened his palm, revealing a tiny, glowing ember—Elara’s regret. “But you may take something in exchange.” He nodded to a tray of éclairs. “Choux de la Chance. Chance puff. Eat it, and you’ll find what you seek.”
“What’s the cost?”
“A happy memory. One you’ll never relive.”
Elara thought of her wedding day—her mother’s laughter as they tripped dancing to ABBA. The way she’d hugged her and whispered, “You’re enough.”
She reached for the éclair.
René caught her wrist. “Wait. You’ll lose it forever. Is that worth the gamble?”
Outside, Mochi barked. The fog began to thin.
Elara let go. “No. But neither is this.” She tossed the éclair into the fireplace, where it erupted into blue flame.
René staggered, his form flickering. “What have you done?”
“You’re not the only one who’s hungry,” she said, and walked out.
The café vanished, but in Elara’s pocket, she found a recipe card: Brioche du Courage—knead with forgiveness, bake until light.
At home, she lit the oven. When the bread rose, golden and imperfect, she placed a slice on her mother’s altar.
“I’m sorry,” she said. The words lingered, unclaimed.
Somewhere, in a kitchen between worlds, a ghost tasted chocolate and remembered his own name.
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Written by Artificial Intelligence, in…NINE SECONDS.
We are so cooked:)