Victorian Bakery Bell Turns Loaf into Parchment

Victorian Bakery Bell Turns Loaf into Parchment

I was late for my shift at the bakery, but instead of the modern storefront I knew, it was a tiny Victorian shop on a cobblestone street. The bell above the door jingled a tinny tune as I pushed it open, and the air smelled of fresh bread and coal smoke. My manager, Mrs. Whitaker, was wearing a high‑necked blouse and a stern expression, reminding me I’d forgotten the day’s orders. I fumbled for my apron, only to find I was still in my pajamas, the lace trim frayed at the cuffs. A man I hadn’t seen since high school, Tom, was at the counter, polishing a brass cash register. He smiled, but his eyes were the same as now – tired, kind. I tried to hand him a loaf, but it turned to parchment and slipped through his fingers. Suddenly the shop’s back wall melted into a hallway of my old school, lockers rusted and doors ajar. I ran, heart pounding, but my feet barely moved. I woke up just as the bell rang, hearing it echo in my kitchen.