The Bakery's burn out husk stood cold and imposing at one corner of Barachiel Plaza, sucking away what carefree life the dawn had roused. The building had the same breadth and four storeys as its neighbours, but with the charred dilapidation, boarded windows and crumbling masonry along the flat roof, somehow The Bakery loomed far larger, and threatened all a similar fate. Early risers hurried by, their skin turning to gooseflesh at the out-of-place sight and the florist unloading a van opposite shot the same furtive glances she did every morning, hoping the evil would remain contained on that side. Even the plaza's central fountain only trickled, fear of reprisal holding its full splendour back.
Voya straightened her tailored suit jacket and practiced her best smile, hoping a sunny disposition could shield the next prospective buyer from the malevolence behind her. Estate agents throughout Satan City would only speak in hushed tones of "Lot 212", a building that returned newly torched to market so often its code had been reserved. Breaking sales records in her very first quarter, the old men at the agency saw fit to give Voya this cursed property and she resented their underhandedness at first, until she visited and learnt that, ironically, it would only ever be her who could get this place off their books forever. Voya saw herself not as a real estate agent but a matchmaker, a mantra that had netted her many happy buyers so far. Although, a property's history and potential usually spoke to her in only a metaphorical sense.
"Back again, girl?" Granny's cracked sneer echoed from within the building, her condescension dripping through decayed gaps in the boarded windows. "What waste of breath you bringing me this time?"
Voya 'shush'ed Granny from habit, despite knowing only she could hear the ghost. Upon their first meeting Voya had promised to help this woman - the bakery's original owner - finish her business and find peace. Frustratingly though, Granny was not forthcoming in what that business was. She only voiced what she didn't want, and emphatically at that, hampering Voya's efforts somewhat. Still, Voya knew enough about spirits to be sure this building had a lot to do with it, and so Voya resolved to do her job, treating Granny as her pickiest client. "This guy was pleasant enough when he picked up the brochure," Voya whispered, "please play nice this time."
"Morning, Ms Voya," came a bright, male voice behind her.
Speak of the devil. Voya spun at the greeting, her welcome smile ready to go. A young man Voya's age grinned widely, his hand outstretched for a shake. He wore the same multi-purpose black suit as yesterday, and carried a tote bag containing a box and that very brochure peeping from the top.
"Mr Son Goten," Voya said, "a pleasure."
"Call me Goten." he said.
"Voya, then." They shook, and Voya's faked smile became a real one. She'd shown ten prospective buyers around this properly already. Five had bailed at this exact moment, as they'd shaken her hand and turned their eyes upwards to the grubbed-up husk in horror. But Goten's eyes sparkled as though he could see what was not, and that was an imagination Voya could work with. "Would you like to meet your new café?"
Voya let Goten open the front door, one she'd oiled and rehung herself - two tricks of hers to make the prospective buyer feel like they already owned the place. He bounded in but soon came to a sliding stop in the gloom. Three more turned tail here, one even laughing at the state of the place, but not Goten.
"Wow," he said in soft reverence, "she's beautiful." Voya could only agree.
Charred but ornately carved wooden pillars and beams lay haphazardly throughout the would-have-been bar conversion, tarnished steel tables and chairs crumpled underneath. At the back, the soot above the kitchen doorway marked the most recent fire's source. The floor for the apartment above had caved in during the three years since the bar's fateful opening night, leaving plumbing and tangled wiring dangling, and some unlucky tenant's apartment furniture garnishing the mess. The cave-in had made its way to the roof in places, and rainwater dripped down, wood greening in spots the daylight found, leaving front-of-house like a dappled forest's glade. And there sat Granny, translucent, still in a white catering apron and hairnet over a slicked-back bun, her lined face glowering. She sat centre-stage on the counter-come-bar, her rage overwhelming the fae energy.
"Looks an idiot," Granny said, but Voya ignored her.
"Welcome to The Bakery," Voya began, "a 670s box-styled four-floored building housing six one-bedroom apartments above a designated retail space-"
"'- perfect for a dreamer to make livelihood and home.'" Goten tapped the brochure. "You weren't lying."
"You've done your homework."
"And my dreaming," he said, pacing in the clearing behind the warning tape, ducking and leaning to see parts of the room he couldn't otherwise visit. After a moment he nodded to himself. "I guessed front-of-house wouldn't have enough light from the floorplan, but the ruined ceiling works out perfect. What d'you think -" he gestured to the two apartments above them and the kitchen "- demolish both of those to double the height and windows out front, see? And above the kitchen can be more seating instead, then we turn the top four apartments into my place. Is that doable?"
Granny snorted. "How decadent."
"We can discuss how to obtain planning permission for that," Voya said with tentative hope. "It's certainly not impossible."
"Great!" Goten's eyes sparkled. "If that works we can boost the light with white wood walls - and pale furniture too, maybe light blue or green - with coved lights, and in the middle balance the tall ceiling with those fancy low-hanging industrial lights - I read you can do that in a blog post once -" he paused, his fervour caught by something through the hole in the ceiling "- or, would two floors be too much space to cover? What if the lights swing in a breeze? Maybe we get the beams back up and - is that a chimney breast?"
Before Voya could offer her advice then protest, Goten's enthusiasm had him vaulting tape, beam and shower basin - surprisingly nimble in his suit - to reach the far end of the room. He stuck his head face up into the grubby marble fireplace. "It's real!" Goten's voice echoed up the flue and birds took flight, detris tumbling. He recoiled, spitting out dust and worse, though unphased. "A fire in this climate, though?"
"For authentic hearth breads," Granny snapped. "My son didn't understand, either."
"The first owner installed the fireplace to make traditional breads from all over the world," Voya translated. "She thought fondly of it."
Goten climbed to his feet, slowly brushing soot from his suit. He glanced at Voya. "Well in that case, I'll be sure I keep it." He flicked a twig from his tidied hair.
"I can't show you the apartments, given -" she pointed to the hole above and between them "- but did you want to see the kitchen?"
"Or what's left of it, yeouch." Goten squinted through the gloom. Just enough light peeped through gaps in the window boards to make out the miserable mess. Beyond the clearing Voya had swept, crushed glass and god-knows what made for rocky danger underfoot. The kitchen had understandably fared worse than the bar; the stovetop fire had twisted and popped stainless steel prep tables beyond recognition and browned, bubbled plastic covered the walls and surfaces, still filling the air with a sharpness that caught in the throat. "I was hoping some would be salvageable," he said.
Granny floated through a wall, tutting. "None of this garbage was mine."
"Nothing here was original, anyway," Voya said. "What's your budget?"
"Enough, luckily." Goten said. "I have my own savings and Mr Bank Manager's help. Don't tell anyone. My family thinks a friend's helping me, but sometimes you've gotta strike out by yourself, y'know?"
"Very much so." Voya had avoided the family's medium business, much to her mother and aunts' disgust.
Thankfully though Goten looked past the rubble, face softening. "The space is perfect. More than I need."
"For what nonsense?" Granny said.
"What kind of café are you opening?" Voya said.
Goten laughed with hesitance, evidently puzzled by her emphasis. "A drinks and desserts one-" he began, before Granny's scream drowned him out.
"No!" Her simmering rage congealed, vibrating air and building. The metal around them sang. "This is my bakery! Leave!" A strip light loosened and fell, exploding glass across the nearest table. Voya jumped, but Goten cleanly back-stepped from the shrapnel, only amused.
Another rejection, just like the last two finalists. Voya deflated, hand to recovering heart. Goten's excitement and plans would have been a perfect fit for the building and quaint area but… Granny seethed.
"Look," Voya said, and Goten turned to her from his examination of the light fixture. "You seem like a nice guy with great passion and all, but this place, it isn't you. The vibe's too..."
"Cantankerous?"
"Stubborn."
"Well then we're stuck, because so am I. I'd love to make this place my home. What do I have to do?"
"I'm not sure if-"
"I wasn't asking you, Voya," he said, raising his eyebrows at Granny.
For a moment Voya politely waited for Granny's response, until understanding dawned on both women. Granny yelled again, this time in abject fear - her scream cut short by her flight through the wall.
Goten barked a laugh. "Sorry for not saying nothing," he said to Voya, "had to be sure you could see her too. Is she the original owner?"
"Y-yes." The Gift wasn't only with Voya's family? "She died in the first fire but didn't pass on. Her son immediately sold the place, and she's burnt out every business since - fifteen franchises in forty years."
"And she wants her bakery back?"
Voya shrugged. "Seems so."
"It's not polite to pretend you can't hear someone." Granny floated in the doorway, arms folded, dignity somewhat recovered.
"Ain't polite to call someone an idiot, neither." Goten bowed. "Son Goten."
Granny returned the gesture, if stiffly. "They call me Granny. And this is my bakery you're trying to steal." She patted the wall.
"And I can see how beautiful she is," Goten said, "but she's never gonna shine again if you keep torching her."
"It's a bakery," Granny said, a shrill tone seeping in, "not a restaurant, not a bar, and certainly not a café. Folk came from all over just to glimpse my artisanal breads. I sourced my flours globally - far harder a task than today - something deemed far too much effort for all you youth. No talent or commitment, the lot of you. Why should I let anyone ruin the reputation this building once had?"
Goten sighed. He took the white card box out from the tote bag and passed it to Voya. "I didn't want to give you this unless the offer was a dead cert, didn't want you to think I was bribing ya, but try one. Tell Granny what you think."
With fleeting suspicion Voya opened the box to find four delicate and identical flaked pastry tarts, glazed slices of odd-looking strawberries and some other green berry serving as filling, a token dollop of cream on each. Granny floated over, curiosity overriding her huff. Tentatively, Voya scooped up a pastry and nibbled a corner. Then took a huge bite.
The glaze cracked under her teeth and the sweet and sour of the berries hit her, the strawberries more floral than she was used to, the tartness of the other berry so strong her ears hurt - but it was just the way she never knew she wanted. The sweetened cream's fat threw a blanket over the fruit, bringing forth the buttered richness of the pastry and the hidden surprise of a rounded frangipane finally settled, readying her for the next bite and the ride to start all over.
"Perfect," she mumbled in a shock, mouth full, "it's unbelievable, like summer…" She swallowed. "I don't know what those green ones are but they're the right kind of sour."
Goten shook his fist, relief palpable. "Early gooseberries. Those and the wild strawberries I handpicked from a forest outside North City only yesterday - that's the kind of lengths I'll go to for good produce." Granny rolled her eyes at Goten's rebuttal.
Voya finished her second bite, but replaced the pastry before she went for another. "How did you know I'd like it?" She licked her fingers.
He tapped his nose. "I can read people. I plan on using the trick to make bespoke café drinks - for a fee. The tips I got running that hussle bartending alone'll cover the kitchen renovation for sure. I'll get this place full of people and talking again in no time, I know it."
"As fine as your work is," Granny said, "that wasn't bread." But the pastry had taken the acid from Granny's comments, too, and Voya's heart rose. "Can you make a bread, at least?"
"Bao and shokupan," Goten said, snapping to business, "my mother's recipes."
"Good start. Nothing else?"
"Not to a pro's standard."
Granny hummed. "Then I'll teach you. You'll bake a loaf for me every day until I'm happy."
"Impossible." Goten said. "I'll have a café to run, and a lot on besides. Once a week."
"Four times."
"Twice." Interjected Voya, finally understanding Granny's game. "And he'll keep one of those sourdough starter jars."
Goten mouthed disagreement, but stopped, seeing how Granny's floated pacing had slowed. "Alright," he said slowly.
"A live yeast culture," Granny said. "Very impressive." She nodded to Voya. "Fine. If he does that, he can stay."
"Thank you!" Voya said, the weight of her quest finally lifting.
"But he's on probation," Granny shouted over her shoulder, already retreating through the wall. The kitchen brightened.
Stepping outside into the now sunny morning, Goten whooped. A similar load must have lifted from his shoulders. "I can't thank you enough," he said. "My first home and first grandma, all for a loaf of bread. I don't think I would've got away without a full bakery if she wasn't soft on you."
"I don't think it was the bread, not really," Voya said while locking up, the pastry box balanced on one knee. Goten waited for her embellishment. "Her son never restarted the business," she said, "and all the following businesses were run by distant managers. I think she ultimately needed someone committed and who cared about their craft."
"And that's why you promised I'd feed a jar of mould twice a day," Goten said, following her logic.
"Exactly." Voya hovered around her next question, knowing it potentially prying but her desperation to know more winning out. "By the way, how are you able to see ghosts? Clairvoyance runs with the women in my family, and I've never met anyone else outside of us. Does The Gift run in your family, too?"
"Kinda," Goten held out his hand to shake, and Voya rebalanced the pastry box to hold out her own. "Can't blab too much," he said, "but I can tell you some of the tale, after I'm open?"
"Of course, after all, I'll have to check in on Granny." They shook, and Voya smiled.
They arranged the appointment to haggle over price and for the inevitable contract signing, then Voya watched Goten leave with an infectious bounce to his step. She clutched the pastry box to her chest. Granny had found her new protégé. Not the one Granny wanted, but a talented protégé nonetheless. Voya took heart knowing Granny would soon be at peace.