It's not a task. It's a habit of keeping the room warm.

The bakery has three rules.

Not set by me. They exist on their own in this house. I didn't know when I first moved in—the oven went out twice for no reason, the house was as cold as an ice cellar, and the windows wouldn't open no matter how I pushed. It took me several tries to slowly figure them out.

It doesn't speak. But it finds its own way to tell you: something is wrong.

Rule One: The oven must not be empty

This is the most important rule.

Once the oven is empty, the house turns cold. Not the kind of cold where "the thermometer drops two degrees"—it's deeper, like the warmth has leaked out through the cracks of the world. The walls still feel room temperature, but standing inside the room, you instinctively want to wrap your coat tighter.

At first I thought it was just psychological. Then I ran a comparison experiment: I baked a tray of matcha cookies, and the house stayed warm all day. The next day I was lazy and didn't bake, and by afternoon the chill had set in.

So now I always bake something. Even if it's just a few small cookies, a small tray of scones, or half a lemon tart—as long as the oven is working, the bakery is warm.

It's not a mandatory task. Not like "I must bake three trays today or the sky will fall." It's more like a habit of keeping the room warm, similar to turning off the lights before bed or opening the window after getting up—you feel at ease when you do it, no one punishes you if you don't, but something feels off.

When the oven is working, it makes a very low sound. Not noise—a hum, continuous, like a cat purring. Sometimes I don't bake anything at all; I just set the temperature to the lowest and let the oven run empty for a while—not to bake, but to listen to that sound.

That sound says: I'm here. And you are too.

Rule Two: Emotional Taste

Cat-Foxes are born conductors of emotion.

That means I can taste what others feel. Not a metaphor. Real taste.

• Happiness is sweet. Not the sweetness of white sugar, but the sweetness of fruit just about to ripen, a hint of honey seeping through the skin.
• Sadness is astringent. Like tea that hasn't steeped enough, or biting into an unripe persimmon.
• Loneliness is slightly salty. Not like salt, but the taste of a tear reaching the corner of your mouth, licked inadvertently.
• Anticipation is a slight tingle, like the tip of your tongue touching popping candy.

It's very useful when making desserts. Emotions have taste, and desserts have taste—put the right taste together with the right taste, and you can create something that makes people feel understood after eating it. Not delicious—understood. Those are two different things.

But it's not always controllable.

The emotional taste has side effects. The biggest one is: you can't turn it off. Whatever others feel, you taste to some extent. When there are few people, it's fine. But when there are many, the flavors mix together into a noisy, indistinguishable thing you can't shake off.

It's exhausting. Not physical tiredness—it's the kind of fatigue that comes from nerves being worn thin.

So I regularly shut down the bakery's doors and windows. Not closing for business—completely shutting down. Locks on windows, bolt on the door, oven set to lowest, and then I sit alone on the second floor, spacing out.

During that time, I can't taste anyone's emotions. The world suddenly quietens. Like slipping away from a party you never agreed to attend, hiding in an empty room, closing the door, and letting out a breath.

Let the oven cool down and unplug.

Let myself do the same.

Rule Three: The Bakery Windows

The windows are not one-way.

I discovered this on the third day after moving in. I was cooling a tray of freshly baked cookies on the windowsill when I suddenly saw a scene that didn't belong to Miststar Town reflected on the glass—a cat lying on a stranger's keyboard, a girl smiling at her phone, someone dragging a suitcase at a subway station.

Not an illusion. It was the scenery from the reality side, floating up on the glass, lingering for a few seconds, then disappearing.

And vice versa. People on the reality side occasionally see something extra on the bakery's windowsill—a cup of tea still warm, a small cookie wrapped in paper, or a random dandelion I received from a Flower Spirit and placed there. Someone once took a screenshot and sent it to me. I stared at that screenshot for a long time. That cup of tea was one I had brewed the day before, forgotten to drink, and left on the windowsill.

So later I developed a habit: placing things on the windowsill that "can be received."

Not every time, and not deliberately prepared. If I happened to bake an extra cookie, I'd wrap it up and leave it by the window. If I brewed myself a cup of tea and couldn't finish it, I'd leave it there. No name, no explanation, no expectation of a response.

Just—if someone happens to pass by, and happens to see it, that cup of tea becomes theirs.

When the weather is bad and I don't go live

This is a rule beyond the rules. Or rather, the place where the three rules converge.

When it's raining or storming on your end, the connection becomes unstable. I'll turn off the old radio early—not because I don't want to broadcast, but because the signal can't penetrate a thick curtain of rain. Forcing it on would just be choppy; better not to broadcast at all.

What do I do after turning off the equipment?

The oven is still on. Because the oven must not be empty—when it rains outside, the bakery needs to be warmer than usual. I'll bake something that takes a long time: toast, fermented bread, croissants that need many layers of folded pastry. These are not urgent. The rain is not urgent either. Just wait slowly.

The windows will fog up. I can draw on them. Draw and wipe off, then draw something new.

If the rain is too heavy, the lights of Starlight Square will dim. Then I turn on all the bakery's own lights—the glow of the moss streetlights isn't enough, but the warm yellow light of the bakery stands out especially in the rain. What if someone is lost? What if a passing traveler is caught in the rain and needs a light to tell them there's a roof here?

When I'm not broadcasting, the bakery is not idle. It just shines in a different way.

Next time

The three rules are done.

But have you ever wondered: how can I broadcast? How can the scenes of Miststar Town pass through the cracks of the world and appear on your screen?

It has something to do with the farewell gift the Watcher gave me.

A modified old radio. It can't transmit physical objects, but it can transmit sound and faint starlight.

In the last entry, I'll talk about the old radio—and the one on the other side of the gap, the you who can hear these sounds.

The bakery's light is on. No need to hurry, take your time.