Speaker 1: Hello, and welcome back to Sleepy Stories. I'm your host, Lucy,
and my friends and I will be reading you a
sleepy bedtime story every week to relax you and to
help you to drift off into a RESTful sleep. From
time to time, we will also read you a relaxing,
peaceful meditation that will take you somewhere beautiful and calming.
Once we have read the stories, we will then read
them a second time, but this time they will be
read read even slower. This will help you to relax
even more. Before we begin, I would like you to
close your eyes and breathe in and out nice and deeply.
Take a few seconds to inhale, and then hold your
breath for a few seconds more, and then release and
breathe out. Do this a few times if you need to.
While you listen to the music and you listen to
my voice, give yourself time to let your body relax
and your mind settle. It's important that we allow time
for us to feel safe, cozy, and completely at ease.
And now it's time for this week's story. The Baker
of Impossible Things on the corner of Pebluick Street, between
a bookshop that sold only unfinished stories, and a clockmaker
who distrusted Tuesdays stood a bakery called the Flower and Wonder.
It was not a large bakery. Its windows were slightly crooked,
its sign creaked in the wind, and every morning, before
the sun rose over the rooftops, warm golden light spilled
from beneath the door, carrying the scent of cinnamon, sugar, oranges,
and something else entirely impossible to describe. Some said it
smelt like childhood. Others said it smelled like rainy afternoons
or long forgotten songs. Old Missus Petal claimed it smelled
exactly like the summer of nineteen sixty three. No one
knew how The baker himself was equally mysterious. His name
was Basil Crumb. He had flower in his hair at
all times, wore stripy socks with holes in the toes,
and spoke to bread as though it had opinions. Steady now,
He'd murmur to rising dough, no need to The dough
often seemed to listen. But the strangest thing about Basil
Crumb was not his socks, nor his talking bread, nor
even the fact that pigeons followed him around like loyal employees.
No The strangest thing was what he baked. Not ordinary
things like buns or cakes or pies. Oh, he made
those two and they were excellent. But hidden among the
ordinary pastries were impossible things. Croissants that could warm cold
hands for hours, biscuits that helped shy people speak bravely,
merangues that tasted like your happiest memory, and once, though
only once, a lemon tart that made a grumpy tax
collector laugh so hard he snorted tea through his nose.
People traveled from miles away to visit the flower and wonder.
Most left smiling, a few left crying happily. One man
left convinced his hat had become philosophical. Basil considered that
an unfortunate side effect. Now in the room above the
bakery lived Basil's apprentice, a fourteen year old girl named
Tilda Red. Tilda had sharp eyes, ink stained fingers, and
absolutely no patience for nonsense. This made apprenticing under Basil
extremely exhausting. Why is the dough glowing, she asked one morning, Confidence,
said Basil, that is not an answer. It's a bad answer.
Tilda side the sigh of someone who had long ago
accepted that reality was no longer reliable. She carried trays
downstairs while Basil hummed beside the ovens. Outside, rain pattered
softly against the windows. The bakery bell jingled in swept
mister Foss. Mister Foss was the richest man in Pebblewick.
He owned factories, warehouses, six waistcoats, and an expression suggesting
he had never enjoyed anything voluntarily. Morning, said Basil cheerfully.
Mister Foss sniffed. Your sign is crooked. It's artistic. It's
loose that too. Mister Foss adjusted his gloves carefully. I
require a cake. Splendid. Birthdays are very important. It is
not for a birthday anniversary, no secret pirate ceremony, mister
Foss stared. Basil brightened. Ah, so it's private. Tilda hid
a smile behind a tray. Mister Foss leaned closer. I
need a cake for the Mayor's gala tonight. Chocolate or vanilla. Impressive.
That's not a flavor, it is if you charge enough.
Basil nodded, thoughtfully, Very true, mister Foss lowered his voice.
The mayor plans to name someone's Citizen of the Year tonight,
and I intend for that. Someone to be me.
Speaker 2: Tilda frowned, you can't win awards by ordering fancy cakes.
Mister Foss gave her the look adults reserve for children
who accidentally say correct things. I want a cake, nobody
can forget. Basil rubbed flour from his chin. I see.
For a moment, the bakery felt oddly quiet. Then Basil
smiled gently, I'm afraid I cannot make that cake. Mister
Foss blinked. What I only bake impossible things. Vanity is
perfectly ordinary. The silence that followed was magnificent. Mister Foss
went red, then purple, then a worrying shade, resembling boiled beetroot.
You refuse me, I politely decline you. There's a difference,
a very important one. Mister Voss slammed coins onto the counter.
You'll regret this. I regret many things, said Basil, mostly
hair cuts. Mister Voss stormed out so furiously he walked
straight into the bread display. A baguette hit him on
the shoulder. Tilda burst out laughing. The moment the door closed,
Basil sighed, that bagguette has terrible timing. You could have
just baked the cake. No, why not Basil looked toward
the ovens. The firelight danced strangely in his eyes. Because
baking changes people, Tilda folded her arms. That sounds dramatic.
It is dramatic. It's baking. He opened one oven door carefully.
Inside sat twelve golden buns, glowing faintly blue. Tilda pointed,
those are glowing again. Yes, why there for the lighthousekeeper?
That explains nothing. Basil shut the oven. Some people come
here hungry for food. Others come hungry for courage, or hope,
or forgiveness. You can't bake forgiveness, Basil looked offended. Of course,
you can, terribly difficult recipe. Though, before Tilda could argue,
the bakery bell jingled again. This time a small boy
entered carrying a broken umbrella. He couldn't have been older
than nine. Rain dripped from his coat sleeves. Excuse me,
he whispered, Are you the impossible baker? Basil bowed slightly.
On weekdays? The boy stepped closer. My sister's sick. Tilda's
smile faded. She's been asleep for days, the boy continued.
She won't wake up properly anymore. Mama says she's just tired,
but his voice wobbled. I think she's drifting away. Basil's
expression softened. What's your name, Oliver? Hmm. Basil walked slowly
to the pantry at the back of the bakery. He
examined jars, ICs, sacks of flour, and little silver tins
labeled things like moon sugar and Thursday jam. Finally, he
nodded Tilda. Yes, we're closing early. We are. We have
something important to bake. For the next three hours, the
bakery transformed completely. Basil moved faster than Tilda had ever seen.
He mixed strange silver powder into batter. He stirred chocolate
clockwise exactly thirteen times. He added cinnamon, honey, and one
tiny glowing orange peel that smelled like sunlight after rain.
What are we making, whispered Tilda. Basil smiled faintly, aking cake.
That's not real. Most good things aren't until someone makes them.
The kitchen filled with warmth and light. Even the rain
outside seemed quieter. At last, Basil removed a small golden
cake from the oven. Steam curled upward in shimmering ribbons.
The scent made Tilda's chest ache unexpectedly. It smelt like safety.
Basil wrapped the cake carefully and handed it to Oliver.
One slice only, he warned, and make sure she eats
it while someone tells her a happy story. Oliver held
the cake like treasure. Will it work, Basil adjusted the
boy's crooked umbrella. Love usually does. After he left, Tilda
sat heavily on a flower sack. You really think cake
can help people, Basil looked, surprised. My dear girl, cake
has saved humanity dozens of times. That evening, the Mare's
gala began. Lanterns glowed across Pebblewick Town Hall. Music drifted
through the square. Rich guests swept through the doors, wearing
velvet coats and expressions of great importance. Tilda carried a
basket of pastries beside Basil as they entered. Why are
we here, she asked. The Mare invited us. Why he
enjoys my apricot tarts and fears my opinions. Inside the
grand hall stood a towering cake at the center of
the four layers, tall covered in gold icing, decorated with
spun sugar swans. Mister Foss stood proudly beside it, accepting
compliments like a king receiving tribute. There you are boomed
the mayor. Upon spotting Basil. The Mayor was round, cheerful,
and permanently out of breath. You simply must judge the
Garla cake competition. I thought this was a charity event.
It's both, whispered the mayor. People behave better when trophies
are involved. A bell rang, the crowd gathered. The mayor
raised his hands dramatically. Citizens of Pebblewick, Tonight we celebrate generosity,
community and expensive disease. Applause thundered. Mister Foss smiled smugly
beside his enormous cake. Then the hall doors burst open.
Everyone turned. Oliver stood there, soaked by rain, breathing hard.
She woke up, he shouted. The room fell silent. My
sister woke up. He ran straight toward Basil. She ate
the cake and laughed at my pirate story and asked
for soup, and Mamma cried. He stopped, suddenly, noticing the
enormous crowd. Basil crouched beside him gently. She's all right,
Oliver nodded fiercely. The mayor dabbed his eyes with a napkin.
Several guests sniffed emotionally. Mister Foss rolled his eyes. Oh, honestly,
it's just coincidence. At that exact moment, his gigantic cake
collapsed sideways, with a noise like a sleepy avalanche. The
sugar swans exploded, cream shot across the mare's shoes. Someone screamed,
save the trifle. Chaos irrupted. Tilda laughed so hard she
nearly dropped the pastries. Mister Foss stood frozen in horror
as icing slid slowly down his expensive waistcoat. Then something
extraordinary happened. One of Basil's small apricot tarts, sitting quietly
on the dessert table, began glowing softly. A woman near
it took a bite. Suddenly she gasped, Oh, she whispered, what,
asked her husband? I remembered something. Tears filled her eyes.
My father used to sing while gardening. Another guest tasted
a pastry, then another, and another. Around the hall, faces changed,
people smiled unexpectedly, arguments stop, Old friends embraced. One elderly
man began laughing uncontrollably because his ecklare reminded him of
falling into a duck pond. In nineteen forty eight, even
the musicians played more warmly. Tilda stared. The impossible baking
had spread through the room like sunlight. Not magic, exactly
something gentler. Mister Voss looked around and in confusion, why
is everyone happy? Basil handed him a small cinnamon bun.
Mister Foss frowned suspiciously. I don't want pity pastry. It
isn't pity pastry. What is it? Perspective reluctantly, mister Foss
took a bite. Nothing happened at first. Then his expression
shifted very slightly, almost imperceptibly. Tilda noticed his shoulders relax,
the angry tightness around his eyes softened. Mister Foss swallowed slowly.
When I was little, he said, quietly, my mother used
to bake cinnamon bread every winter. Nobody spoke. I'd completely forgotten.
Basil nodded. Happens more often than you'd think. Mister Voss
stared at the ruined golden cake beside him. All this time,
he muttered, I thought impressive meant enormous. The mare waddled forward,
covered partly in cream. It doesn't, he declared, proudly. Impressive
means meaningful. He raised a sticky finger dramatically, and therefore
Citizen of the Year goes too. Every One leaned forward
Basil crumb. The hall erupted in applause. Basil looked horrified.
Oh dear you, one cried Tilda. That sounds exhausting. The
mare handed him a gold medal shaped like a loaf
of bread. Basil sighed deeply. I shall have to dust
this weekly. Later that night, after the gala ended and
the lanterns dimmed, Basil and Tilda walked home through quiet streets.
Rain water shimmered on the cobblestones. Inside the bakery, the
ovens still glowed softly. Tilda sat atop the counter, swinging
her legs. Can I ask you something dangerous? Start? Why
do impossible things work better than ordinary ones? Basil considered
this carefully while feeding crumbs to a pigeon on the
window sill. Because people expect ordinary things, and they stopped
noticing them. He lit a small candle beside the till.
But wonder, he said, softly. Wonder sneaks past the part
of us that thinks life must always stay the same.
The bakery creaked warmly around them. Outside, the town slept peacefully.
Tilda looked at the shelves of cooling pastries. Do you
think I'll ever learn how to bake impossible things? Basil smiled.
My dear Tilda, you already are? She frowned, I am.
You stayed late to help a frightened little boy. Well, yes,
you laughed when everyone else took themselves too seriously, I suppose,
And you carried Hope very carefully all evening. Without even realizing,
Tilda looked down at her flower covered hands. Basil open
the oven door one final time. Inside sat a single
small loaf, glowing faintly gold. For tomorrow, asked Tilda. No,
said Basil, For someone who hasn't yet remembered, they're worth saving.
The lights dimmed, the bakery settled, and somewhere in the
sleeping town of Pebblewick Dreams smelled faintly of cinnamon and
impossible things. The end the Baker of Impossible Things. On
the corner of Pebluick Street, between a book shop that
sold only unfinished stories and a clockmaker who distrusted Tuesdays,
stood a bakery called the Flower and Wonder. It was
not a large bakery. Its windows were slightly crooked, its
sign creaked in the wind, and every morning before the
sun rose over the rooftops. Warm golden light spilled from
beneath the door, carrying the scent of cinnamon, sugar, oranges,
and something else entirely impossible to describe. Some said it
smelt like childhood. Others said it smelled like rainy afternoons
or long forgotten songs. Old Missus Pettal claimed it smelled
exactly like the summer of nineteen sixty three. No one
knew how. The baker himself was equally mysterious. His name
was Basil Crumb. He had flower in his hair at
all times, wore stripy socks with holes in the toes,
and spoke to bread as though it had opinions. Steady now,
he'd murmur to rising dough, No need to panic. The
dough often seemed to listen. But the strangest thing about
Basil Crumb was not his socks, nor his talking bread,
nor even the fact that pigeons followed him around like
loyal employees. No, the strangest thing was what he baked.
Not ordinary things like buns or cakes or pies. Oh,
he made those too, and they were excellent. But hidden
among the ordinary pastries were impossible things, croissants that could
warm cold hands for hours, biscuits that helped shy people
speak bravely, meringues that tasted like your happiest memory, and once,
though only once, a lemon tart that made a grumpy
tax collector laugh so hard he snorted tea through his nose.
People traveled from miles away to visit the flower and wonder.
Most left smiling, a few left crying happily. One man
left convinced his hat had become philosophical. Basil considered that
an unfortunate side effect. Now in the room above the
bakery lived Basil's apprentice, a fourteen year old girl named
Tilda Reed. Tilda had sharp eyes, ink stained fingers, and
absolutely no patience for nonsense. This made apprenticing under Basil
extremely exhausting. Why is the dough glowing, she asked one morning, Confidence,
said Basil. That is not an answer. It's a bread answer.
Tilda side the sigh of someone who had long ago
accepted that reality was no longer reliable. She carried trays
downstairs while Basil hummed beside the ovens. Outside, rain pattered
softly against the windows. The bakery bell jingled in swept
Mister Foss, Mister Foss, was the richest man in Pebblewick.
He owned factories, warehouses, six waistcoats, and an expression suggest
he had never enjoyed anything voluntarily. Morning, said Basil cheerfully.
Mister Foss sniffed. Your sign is crooked. It's artistic. It's
loose that too. Mister Foss adjusted his gloves carefully. I
require a cake. Splendid birthdays are very important. It is
not for a birthday anniversary, no secret pirate ceremony. Mister
Foss stared. Basil brightened. Ah, so it's private. Tilda hid
a smile behind a tray. Mister Foss leaned closer. I
need a cake for the Mayor's Garla tonight. Chocolate or vanilla. Impressed,
that's not a flavor, it is if you charge enough.
Basil nodded, thoughtfully, very true, mister Foss lowered his voice.
The mayor plans to name someone Citizen of the Year tonight,
and I intend for that someone to be me. Tilda frowned.
You can't win awards by ordering fancy cakes. Mister Foss
gave her the look adults reserve for children who accidentally
say correct things. I want a cake. Nobody can forget
Basil rubbed flour from his chin. I see for a moment,
the bakery felt oddly quiet. Then Basil smiled gently, I'm
afraid I cannot make that cake. Mister Foss blinked. What
I only bake impossible things. Vanity is perfectly ordinary. The
silence that followed was magnificent. Mister Voss went red, then purple,
then a worrying shade, resembling boiled beetroot. You refuse me,
I politely decline you. There's a difference, a very important one.
Mister Voss slammed coins on to the counter. You'll regret this.
I regret many things, said Basil, mostly hair cuts. Mister
Voss stormed out so furiously he walked straight into the
bread display. A baguette hit him on the shoulder. Tilda
burst out laughing. The moment the door closed, Basil sighed
that baguette has terrible timing. You could have just baked
the cake. No, why not? Basil looked toward the ovens.
The firelight danced strangely in his eyes. Because baking changes people,
Tilda folded her arms. That sounds dramatic. It is dramatic.
It's baking. He opened one oven door. Carefully inside sat
twelve golden buns, glowing faintly blue. Tilda pointed, those are
glowing again. Yes, why there for the lighthousekeeper. That explains nothing.
Basil shut the oven. Some people come here hungry for food.
Others come hungry for courage, or hope, or forgiveness. You
can't bake forgiveness, Basil looked offended. Of course, you can
terribly difficult recipe. Though, before Tilda could argue, the bakery
bell jingled again. This time a small boy entered carrying
a broken umbrella. He couldn't have been older than nine.
Rain dripped from his coat sleeves. Excuse me, he whispered,
Are you the impossible baker? Basil bowed slightly. On weekdays?
The boy stepped closer. My sister's sick. Tilda's smile faded.
She's been asleep for days, the boy continued. She won't
wake up properly anymore. Mamma, he says, she's just tired,
but his voice wobbled. I think she's drifting away. Basil's
expression softened. What's your name, Oliver Humm. Basil walked slowly
to the pantry at the back of the bakery. He
examined jars, spices, sacs of flour, and little silver tins
labeled things like moon sugar and Thursday jam. Finally, he
nodded Tilda, Yes, we're closing early. We are we have
something important to bake For the next three hours, the
bakery transformed completely. Basil moved faster than Tilda had ever seen.
He mixed strange silver powder into batter. He stirred chocolate
clockwise exactly thirteen times. He added cinnamon, honey, and one
tiny glowing orange peel that smelled like sunlight after rain.
What are we making, whispered Tilda. Basil smiled faintly. A
waking cake. That's not real. Most good things aren't until
someone makes them. The kitchen filled with warmth and light.
Even the rain outside seemed quieter. At last, Basil removed
a small golden cake from the oven. Steam curled upward
in shimmering ribbons. The scent made Tilda's chest ache Unexpectedly,
it smelled like safety. Basil wrapped the cake carefully and
handed it to Oliver. One slice only, he warned, and
make sure she eats it while someone tells her a
happy story. Oliver held the cake like treasure. Will it work,
Basil adjusted the boy's crooked umbrella. Love usually does. After
he left, Tilda sat heavily on a flower sack. You
really think cake can help people, Basil looked, surprised. My
dear girl, cake has saved humanity dozens of times. That evening,
the Mayre's gala began. Lanterns glowed across Pebblewick Town Hall.
Music drifted through the square. Rich guests swept through the doors,
wearing velvet coats and expressions of great importance. Tilda carried
a basket of pastries beside Basil as they entered. Why
are we here, she asked? The mayor invited us. Why
he enjoys my apricot tarts and fears my opinions. Inside
the grand hall stood a towering cake at the center
of the room, four layers tall, covered in gold icing,
decorated with spun sugar swans. Mister Foss stood proudly beside it,
accepting compliments like a king receiving tribute. There you are
boomed the mare. Upon spotting Basil, the mare was round, cheerful,
and permanently out of breath. You simply must judge the
Garla cake competition. I thought this was a charity event.
It's both, whispered the mayor. People behave better when trophies
are involved. A bell rang, the crowd gathered. The Mayor
raised his hands dramatically. Citizens of Pebblewick, Tonight we celebrate generosity,
community and expensive desserts. Applause thundered. Mister Voss smiled smugly
beside his enormous cake. Then the hall doors burst open.
Everyone turned. Oliver stood there, soaked by rain, breathing hard.
She woke up, he shouted. The room fell silent. My
sister woke up. He ran straight toward Basil. She ate
the cake and laughed at my pirate story and asked
for soup, and Mamma I cried. He stopped, suddenly, noticing
the enormous crowd. Basil crouched beside him gently. She's all right,
Oliver nodded fiercely. The mare dabbed his eyes with a napkin.
Several guests sniffed emotionally. Mister Foss rolled his eyes. Oh, honestly,
it's just coincidence. At that exact moment, his gigantic cake
collapsed sideways with a noise like a sleepy avalanche. The
sugar swans exploded, cream shot across the mare's shoes. Someone screamed,
save the trifle. Chaos irrupted. Tilda laughed so hard she
nearly dropped the pastries. Mister Foss stood frozen in horror
as icing slid slowly down his expensive waistcoat. Then something
extraordinary happened. One of Basil's small apricot tarts, sitting quietly
on the dessert table, began glowing softly. A woman near
it took a bite. Suddenly, she gasped, oh, she whispered, What,
asked her husband? I remembered something. Tears filled her eyes.
My father used to sing while gardening. Another guest tasted
a pastry, then another and another. Around the hall, faces changed,
people smiled unexpectedly, arguments stop, Old friends embraced. One elderly
man began laughing uncontrollably because his ecklaar reminded him of
falling into a duck pond in nineteen forty eight. Even
the musicians played more warmly. Tilda stared the impossible baking
had spread through the room like sunlight, not magic, exactly
something gentler. Mister Foss looked around in confusion. Why is
everyone happy? Basil handed him a small cinnamon bun. Mister
Foss frowned suspiciously. I don't want pity pastry. It isn't
pity pastry. What is it? Perspective reluctantly, mister Foss took
a bite. Nothing happened at first. Then his expression shifted
very slightly, almost imperceptibly. Tilda not tissed his shoulders relax.
The angry tightness around his eyes softened. Mister Foss swallowed slowly.
When I was little, he said, quietly, my mother used
to bake cinnamon bread every winter. Nobody spoke. I'd completely forgotten.
Basil nodded. Happens more often than you'd think. Mister Foss
stared at the ruined golden cake beside him. All this time,
he muttered, I thought impressive meant enormous. The mare waddled forward,
covered partly in cream. It doesn't, he declared proudly. Impressive
means meaningful. He raised a sticky finger dramatically. And therefore
Citizen of the Year goes too. Everyone leaned forward Basil crumb.
The hall erupted in applause. Basil looked horrified. Oh dear you, one,
cried Tilda. That sounds exhausting. The mare handed him a
gold medal shaped like a loaf of bread. Basil sighed deeply,
I shall have to dust this weekly. Later that night,
after the gala ended and the lanterns dimmed, Basil and
Tilda walked home through quiet streets. Rain water shimmered on
the cobblestones. Inside the bakery, the ovens still glowed softly.
Tilda sat atop the counter, swinging her legs. Can I
ask you something dangerous? Start? Why do impossible things work
better than ordinary ones? Basil considered this carefully while feeding
crumbs to a pigeon on the windowsill. Because people expect
ordinary things, and they stopped noticing them, He lit a
small candle beside the till. But wonder, he said softly.
Wonder sneaks past the part of us that thinks life
must always stay the same. The bakery creaked warmly around them. Outside,
the town slept peacefully. Tilda looked at the shelves of
cooling pastries. Do you think I'll ever learn how to
bake impossible things? Basil smiled, My dear Tilda, you already
are She frowned, I am? You stayed late to help
a frightened little boy. Well, yes, you laughed when everyone
else took themselves too seriously, I suppose, and you carried
Hope very carefully all evening. Without even realizing, Tilda looked
down at her flower covered hands, Basil opened the oven
door one final time. Inside sat a single small loaf,
glowing faintly gold. For tomorrow, asked Tilda. No, said Basil,
For someone who hasn't yet remembered, they're worth saving. The
lights dimmed, the bakery settled, and somewhere in the sleeping
town of Pebblewick Dreams smelled faintly of cinnamon and impossible things.
The end the Baker of Impossible Things. On the corner
of Pebluick Street, between a book shop that sold only
unfinished stories and a clockmaker who distrusted Tuesdays, stood a
bakery called the Flower and Wonder. It was not a
large bakery. Its windows were slightly crooked, its sign creaked
in the wind, and every morning, before the sun rose
over the rooftops, warm golden light spilled from beneath the door,
carrying the scent of cinnamon, sugar, oranges, and something else
entirely impossible to describe. Some said it smelt like childhood.
Others said it smelled like rainy afternoons or long forgotten songs.
Old Missus Petal claimed it smelled exactly like the summer
of nineteen sixty three. No one knew how The baker
himself was equally mysterious. His name was Basil Crumb. He
had flower in his hair at all times, wore stripy
socks with holes in the toes, and spoke to bread
as though it had opinions. Steady, Now, he'd murmur to
rising dough, No need to panic. The dough often seemed
to listen. But the strangest thing about Basil Crumb was
not his socks, nor his talking breath, nor even the
fact that pigeons followed him around like loyal employees. No,
the strangest thing was what he baked. Not ordinary things
like buns or cakes or pies. Oh, he made those two,
and they were excellent. But hidden among the ordinary pastries
were impossible things. Croissants that could warm cold hands for hours,
biscuits that helped shy people speak bravely, merangues that tasted
like your happiest memory, and once, though only once, a
lemon tart that made a grumpy tax collector laugh so
hard he snorted tea through his nose. People traveled from
miles away to visit the flower and wonder. Most left smiling,
a few left crying happily. One man left convinced his
hat had become philosophical. Basil considered that an unfortunate side effect.
Now in the room above the bakery lived Basil's apprentice,
a fourteen year old girl named Tilda Red. Tilda had
sharp eyes, ink stained fingers, and absolutely no patience for nonsense.
This made apprenticing under Basil extremely exhausting. Why is the
dough glowing, she asked one morning, confidence, said Basil. That
is not an answer, it's a bread answer. Tilda sighed,
the sigh of someone who had long ago accepted that
reality was no longer reliable. She carried trays downstairs while
Basil hummed beside the ovens. Outside, rain pattered softly against
the windows. The bakery bell jingled in swept mister Foss.
Mister Foss was the richest man in Pebblewick. He owned factories, warehouses,
six waistcoats, and an expression suggesting he had never enjoyed
anything voluntarily. Morning, said Basil, cheerfully. Mister Foss sniffed. Your
sign is crooked. It's artistic. It's loose that too. Mister
Foss adjusted his gloves carefully. I require a cake. Splendid.
Birthdays are very important. It is not for a birthday
an averse nursery, no secret, pirate ceremony. Mister Foss stared.
Basil brightened. Ah, so it's private. Tilda hid a smile
behind a tray. Mister Foss leaned closer. I need a
cake for the Mayor's gala tonight. Chocolate or vanilla. Impressive.
That's not a flavor, it is if you charge enough.
Basil nodded thoughtfully. Very true, mister Foss lowered his voice.
The Mayor plans to name someone's Citizen of the Year tonight,
and I intend for that someone to be me. Tilda frowned.
You can't win awards by ordering fancy cakes. Mister Foss
gave her the look adults reserve for children who accidentally
say correct things. I want a cake. Nobody can forget.
Basil rubbed flour from his chin. I see. For a moment,
the bakery felt oddly quiet. Then Basil smiled gently. I'm
afraid I cannot make that cake. Mister Foss blinked. What
I only bake impossible things. Vanity is perfectly ordinary. The
silence that followed was magnificent. Mister Foss went red, then purple,
then a worrying shade, resembling boiled beetroot. You refuse me,
I politely decline you. There's a difference, a very important one.
Mister Foss slammed coin on to the counter. You'll regret this.
I regret many things, said Basil, mostly haircuts. Mister Voss
stormed out so furiously. He walked straight into the bread display.
A baguette hit him on the shoulder. Tilda burst out laughing.
The moment the door closed, Basil sighed, that bagguette has
terrible timing. You could have just baked the cake. No,
why not? Basil looked toward the ovens. The firelight danced
strangely in his eyes. Because baking changes people, Tilda folded
her arms. That sounds dramatic. It is dramatic. It's baking.
He opened one oven door carefully. Inside sat twelve golden buns,
glowing faintly blue. Tilda pointed, those are glowing again, Yes,
why there for the lighthousekeeper. That explains nothing. Basil shut
the oven. Some people come here hungry for food. Others
come hungry for courage, or hope or forgiveness. You can't
bake forgiveness, Basil looked offended. Of course, you can terribly
difficult recipe. Though, before Tilda could argue, the bakery bell
jingled again. This time a small boy entered carrying a
broken umbrella. He couldn't have been older than nine. Rain
dripped from his coat sleeves. Excuse me, he whispered, Are
you the impossible baker? Basil bowed slightly. On weekdays? The
boy stepped closer. My sister's sick. Tilda's smile faded. She's
been asleep for days, the boy continued. She won't wake
up properly anymore. Mamma says she's just tired, but his
voice wobbled. I think she's drifting away. Basil's expression softened.
What's your name, Oliver Humm? Basil walked slowly to the
pantry at the back of the bakery. He examined jars, spices,
sacks of flour, and little silver tins labeled things like
moon sugar and Thursday jam. Finally, he nodded Tilda. Yes,
we're closing early. We are we have something important to bake.
For the next three hours, the bakery transformed completely. Basil
moved faster than Tilda had ever seen. He mixed strange
silver powder into batter. He stirred chocolate clockwise exactly thirteen times.
He added cinnamon, honey, and one tiny glowing orange peel
that smelled like sunlight. After rain, What are we making,
whispered Tilda. Basil smiled faintly. A waking cake. That's not real.
Most good things aren't until someone makes them. The kitchen
filled with warmth and light. Even the rain outside seemed quieter.
At last, Basil removed a small golden cake from the oven.
Steam curled upward in shimmering ribbons. The scent made Tilda's
chest ache unexpectedly, it smelled like safety. Basil wrapped the
cake carefully and handed it to Oliver. One slice only,
he warned, and make sure she eats it while someone
tells her a happy story. Oliver held the cake like treasure.
Will it work? Basil adjusted the boy's crooked umbrella. Love
usually does. After he left, Tilda sat heavily on a
flower sack. You really think cake can help people. Basil
look surprised. My dear girl, cake has saved humanity dozens
of times. That evening, the Mare's gala began. Lanterns glowed
across Pebblewick Town Hall. Music drifted through the square. Rich
guests swept through the doors, wearing velvet coats and expressions
of great importance. Tilda carried a basket of pastries beside
Basil as they entered. Why are we here, she asked.
The Mare invited us. Why he enjoys my apricot tarts
and fears my opinions. Inside the grand hall stood a
towering cake at the center of the room, four layers tall,
covered in gold icing, decorated with spunge sugar swans. Mister
Foss stood proudly beside it, accepting compliments like a king
receiving tribute. There you are boomed the mayor. Upon spotting Basil.
The Mayor was round, cheerful, and permanently out of breath.
You simply must judge the garala cake competition. I thought
this was a charity event. It's both whispered the mayor.
People behave better when trophies are involved. A bell rang
the crowd gathered. The mayor raised his hands dramatically. Citizens
of Pebblewick, Tonight we celebrate generosity, community and expensive desserts.
Applause thundered. Mister Foss smiled smugly beside his enormous cake.
Then the hall door burst open. Everyone turned. Oliver stood there,
soaked by rain, breathing hard. She woke up, he shouted.
The room fell silent. My sister woke up. He ran
straight toward Basil. She ate the cake and laughed at
my pirate story and asked for soup, and Mamma cried.
He stopped, suddenly, noticing the enormous crowd. Basil crouched beside
him gently. She's all right, Oliver nodded fiercely. The Mayor
dabbed his eyes with a napkin. Several guests sniffed emotionally.
Mister Foss rolled his eyes. Oh, honestly, it's just coincidence.
At that exact moment, his gigantic cake collapsed sideways, with
a noise like a sleepy avalanche. The sugar swans exploded,
cream shot across the mare's shoes. Someone screamed, save the trifle.
Chaos irrupted. Tilda laughed so hard she nearly dropped the pastries.
Mister Foss stood frozen in horror as icing slid slowly
down his expensive waistcoat. Then something extraordinary happened. One of
Basil's small apricot tarts, sitting quietly on the dessert table,
began glowing softly. A woman near it took a bite.
Suddenly she gasped, oh, she whispered, what, asked her husband?
I remembered something. Tears filled her eyes. My father used
to seeing while gardening. Another guest tasted a pastry, then
another and another. Around the hall, faces changed, People smiled unexpectedly,
arguments stop, Old friends embraced. One elderly man began laughing
uncontrollably because his ecklaar reminded him of falling into a
duck pond in nineteen forty eight. Even the musicians played
more warmly. Tilda stared. The impossible baking had spread through
the room like sunlight, not magic, exactly something gentler. Mister
Foss looked around in confusion. Why is everyone happy? Basil
handed him a small cinnamon bun. Mister Foss frowns suspiciously.
I don't want pity pastry. It isn't pity pastry, What
is it? Perspective? Reluctantly, mister Foss took a bite. Nothing
happened at first. Then his expression shifted very slightly, almost imperceptibly.
Tilda noticed his shoulders relax, the angry tightness around his
eyes softened. Mister Foss swallowed slowly. When I was little,
he said, quietly, my mother used to bake cinnamon bread
every winter. Nobody spoke. I'd completely forgotten. Basil nodded. Happens
more often than you'd think. Mister Foss stared at the
ruined golden cake beside him. All this time, he muttered,
I thought impressive meant enormous. The Mare waddled forward, covered
partly in cream. It doesn't, he declared proudly. Impressive means meaningful.
He raised a sticky finger dramatically. And therefore Citizen of
the Year goes too. Everyone leaned forward Basil crumb. The
hall erupted in applause. Basil looked horrified. Oh dear you, one,
cried Tilda. That sounds exhausting. The Mare handed him a
gold medal shaped like a loaf of bread. Basil sighed deeply,
I shall have to dust this weekly later that night.
After the gala ended and the Santons dimmed, Basil and
Tilda walked home through quiet streets. Rain water shimmered on
the cobblestones. Inside the bakery, the ovens still glowed softly.
Tilda sat atop the counter, swinging her legs. Can I
ask you something dangerous? Start? Why do impossible things work
better than ordinary ones? Basil considered this carefully while feeding
crumbs to a pigeon on the window sill. Because people
expect ordinary things, and they stopped noticing them, he lit
a small candle beside the till. But wonder, he said, softly.
Wonder sneaks past the part of us that thinks life
must always stay the same. The bakery creaked warmly around them.
Outside the town slept peacefully. Tilda looked at the shelves
of cooling pastries. Do you think I'll ever learn how
to bake impossible things? Basil smiled, My dear Tilda, you
already are, She frowned. I am. You stayed late to
help a frightened little boy. Well, yes, you laughed when
everyone else took themselves too seriously, I suppose, And you
carried hope very carefully all evening Without even realizing, Tilda
looked down at her flower covered hands. Basil opened the
oven door one final time. Inside sat a single small loaf,
glowing faintly gold. For tomorrow, asked Tilda. No, said Basil,
for someone who hasn't yet remembered. They're worth saving. The
lights dimmed, the bakery settled, and somewhere in the sleeping
town of Pebblewick Dreams smelled faintly of cinnamon and impossible things.
The end u.
Speaker 1: It a D B