Once upon a time, in the quaint little town of Buttercup Lane, there lived a baker named Oliver Crumb. Oliver was famous for two things: his heavenly pastries and his absolutely disastrous luck. It was said that if there was a banana peel within a hundred miles, it would somehow travel across continents just to be under Oliver’s foot. Despite his misfortunes, Oliver had a heart as warm as his oven. Every morning, he would bake fresh bread, buttery croissants, and his legendary jam tarts. He gave free pastries to the elderly, added extra frosting for children, and even made sugar-free biscuits for grumpy Mr. Flint, who claimed sugar was “the root of all evil.”

One sunny afternoon, a new face appeared in town — a lively young woman named Clara, with hair the colour of cinnamon and a laugh that could make even Mr. Flint smile. She walked into Oliver’s bakery, ordered a cherry tart, and declared it the best thing she had ever tasted. Oliver, for once, forgot to trip over the welcome mat. Over the next few months, Clara visited often. She’d sit by the window with her tea, chatting with Oliver as he worked. They shared stories, jokes, and occasional arguments about whether custard was superior to cream (Oliver insisted cream was king; Clara disagreed, vehemently). Slowly, Oliver began to think that maybe — just maybe — his luck was changing.

But life, as it often does, had other plans. One stormy evening, news spread that Clara was moving away. Her father had fallen ill in another town, and she needed to help her family’s bookstore. Oliver baked all night, preparing a basket of her favourites — the cherry tart, the buttery croissant, and yes, one custard tart (just to make her roll her eyes one last time). On her last morning in Buttercup Lane, Oliver handed Clara the basket. She hugged him tightly and whispered, “Thank you for making this place feel like home.” And then she was gone, her figure disappearing down the cobblestone street. Oliver stood there long after she vanished, holding the empty warmth of her absence.

The bakery was never quite the same. Oliver still baked, still gave extra frosting to the children, still argued with Mr. Flint about sugar. But some mornings, he’d place a cherry tart by the window and leave it untouched, as if waiting for a laugh he knew wouldn’t come. Years later, when Oliver passed away quietly in his sleep, the townsfolk found a small tin box under his bed. Inside was a faded ribbon, a pressed buttercup flower, and a note in Clara’s handwriting: “For the baker who made even rainy days taste sweet.”