Chapter 3: The Fateful Encounter
The little bakery called Ethan’s Oven sat quietly at the corner of a cherry-blossomed street, as if time itself slowed down just to breathe in its presence. Petals fluttered in the wind, landing delicately on the old tiled roof—like forgotten memories brushing against a heart that never truly healed.
The scent of freshly baked pastries floated through the spring air—sweet, tender, and nostalgic, like an embrace from a distant yesterday. It slipped through wooden cracks, wrapping around the shoulders of passersby like an old, familiar whisper.
But for Leon, it stirred something else entirely—an ache. A rush of confusion and longing swelling in his chest.
He never cared for sweetness. Nor crowds. Leon’s life had long been a quiet symphony of solitude, heavy with shadows and silence. Yet here he was, standing on the sidewalk across the street, hands tucked into his pockets, staring through the bakery’s fogged-up window.
Inside, a slender figure moved gracefully behind the counter, smiling gently as she wrapped a loaf of bread in waxed paper—like she was tucking spring itself into someone’s arms.
Camila.
That name—the one his son had whispered every night like a prayer.
“Daddy, I saw her! I really saw her! That’s her, that’s my mom! She works at that bakery—I told you!”
At first, Leon thought it was just a child’s fantasy. Kids often built their own imaginary worlds to patch up the emptiness adults left behind. How could a child who had never once been held by his mother be so certain?
It started with a photograph. A single, faded image Camila had sent him years ago—just once. Leon had shown it to the boy during one of his sleepless, tear-filled nights. He didn’t expect anything.
But his son’s eyes had lit up, brighter than stars, as if he had seen an angel.
Since then, he hadn’t stopped talking about her. Morning, noon, night.
And today... Leon finally listened.
He came. Just to prove it wasn’t real.
And yet—there she was.
Not a ghost. Not a dream.
Camila.
The woman who once held his heart in both hands.
She was alive. Breathing. Just behind that fragile sheet of glass.
Leon watched her smile at an elderly customer, her hands moving with practiced care as she wrapped another loaf. Her hair, tied back high, was dusted in flour, a few strands falling loose like mornings long ago—when she lay beside him, tousled and peaceful.
And then, his gaze dropped to her left hand.
A ring.
White gold.
Delicate. Simple. Final.
The kind of ring worn by someone who already belonged to someone else.
His heart twisted.
Camila—the woman who once whispered, “If it’s not you, I’d rather be alone forever”—was now someone else’s forever.
The boy hadn’t been wrong.
She was his mother.
But she was no longer Leon’s Camila.
Still, he lingered. Frozen in place, one hand brushing the bakery’s doorknob. He didn’t move. It felt like touching that door would detonate the past.
Then—softly, painfully—the bell above the door rang.
Inside, Camila was dusting sugar over a tart. Sunlight poured through the window and kissed her hair like silver. But her heart... had long since turned to stone, buried beneath layers of silence and years of not being chosen.
She turned around.
Just for a second.
Her eyes—once a place of warmth—now colder than an Arctic night. No shock. No tremble. Not even a flicker of love remained.
Only silence.
And something darker.
Hatred.
Leon’s lungs constricted.
She said nothing.
Didn’t ask why he came.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t scream.
That silence... was the cruelest sentence of all.
“Are you... married?”
He asked, voice cracking like a man drowning in a dream gone wrong.
Camila didn’t answer. Just one glance—frostier than a Scandinavian winter.
It wasn’t the look of a lost lover.
It was the look one gives an enemy.
She placed the tray down, calm and wordless. Then she walked away.
As if he had never existed.
Leon didn’t move. His feet anchored in shattered memories. He had believed that seeing her again might earn him redemption. But no.
The most painful thing is not being hated.
It’s becoming... a stranger to the one who once called you "everything."
He turned to leave.
The bell rang again.
Cold. Empty.
Camila stood still, watching his figure disappear once more. That man—he was her youth, her ruin, the thief who had walked away with not just their child, but the last soft place in her heart.
A flood of questions screamed in her soul:
Why?
Where is my child?
Did you ever love me... at all?
But none of them reached her lips.
Because deep down, she knew—
She no longer had the right to ask.
To him, Camila had always just been a temporary name. A contract. A means to an end.
A soft rustle broke her spiral.
A photo slipped from the pages of an old notebook.
A child—three, maybe four years old. Big, glistening eyes like morning dew.
A strange ache ripped through her chest.
She picked it up, hands trembling.
Those eyes...
They weren’t Leon’s.
They were his.
Hers.
Their son.