Evangeline Gearheart's Journal Entry #26 - March 2025

The Season Turns

By the time Valentine’s Day faded into the soft blur of memory — the heart‑shaped boxes discounted at the Co‑op, the wilted roses in bins behind the petrol station, the last of the pink foil wrappers swept from the bakery floor — the world around Evangeline had begun to shift. Not dramatically, not in a way most people would notice, but in the subtle, almost shy way that West Yorkshire eased itself from winter into the earliest whisper of spring.

The mornings were still cold, cold enough that her breath fogged the window when she leaned close to check the weather. But the light… the light had changed. It came earlier, stretching across the bakery floorboards in long, pale ribbons that made the flour dust sparkle like frost. The air carried a different kind of quiet — not the heavy, muffled stillness of winter, but a lighter, expectant hush, as though the world was holding its breath for something new.

Evangeline’s corner of the bakery had become her sanctuary.Her little chocolate nook — carved out between the dry‑goods shelves and the window overlooking the narrow street — was a world unto itself. Copper bowls hung above her like warm, suspended planets. Her marble slab was always cool, no matter how hot the ovens ran. And the scent around her was a constant, comforting blend of cocoa, vanilla, and whatever infusion she was experimenting with that day.

She loved the early hours most. Before the bell above the door chimed. Before the baker’s radio crackled to life with its usual mix of 80s hits and local gossip. Before the first customer shuffled in, stamping cold from their boots.

In those quiet moments, she could hear the building breathe — the soft creak of old beams, the hum of the refrigerators, the whisper of the proofer steaming gently in the corner. It felt like the bakery itself was waking up with her.

With Valentine’s Day behind her, she felt a shift inside herself too.A loosening.A widening.A sense that the world was stretching toward possibility.

She wanted to create chocolates that tasted like that feeling — like the first day you could open your windows again, like the moment you noticed buds on the trees, like the soft promise of longer days.

Her baker friend — a woman with flour permanently dusted into the creases of her apron and a laugh that warmed the room faster than the ovens — watched Evangeline’s seasonal shift with quiet delight.

“You’re chasing spring,” she said one morning, sliding a tray of dough into the proofer. The steam curled around her like a blessing.

“I’m chasing the feeling of it,” Evangeline replied, pouring a ribbon of glossy chocolate onto her marble slab. The sound it made — a soft, velvety sigh — was one of her favourite things in the world.

She experimented with flavours the way some people painted: boldly, intuitively, with a willingness to ruin a canvas if it meant discovering something extraordinary.

Elderflower ganache that tasted like walking through a meadow at dusk.Rose truffles that were delicate without being perfumed.Lavender‑honey creams that melted on the tongue like a whispered secret.A rhubarb‑white‑chocolate swirl that made her baker friend laugh because it tasted exactly like crumble filling, minus the crumble.

Children pressed their noses to the glass to see what new shapes she’d made.Older regulars nodded approvingly, murmuring that she had “a gift, that one.”Word spread — not loudly, not quickly, but steadily, like a rumour carried on warm bread‑scented air.

And for the first time in this new timeline, Evangeline felt rooted.Not just present — but belonging.