The first time my boyfriend, Kevin, took me back to his family’s small, rural hometown, I stopped at a boutique in the nearby town to pick up several boxes of beautifully packaged pastries as a hostess gift. The moment I stepped through the door, offering the box with a nervous smile, the warmth from the neighbors gathered inside evaporated. An older woman, who had just greeted me with a hug, suddenly backed away, her face draining of color. She spat a disgusted sound onto the floor. “Pah! That girl looks sweet, but she’s clearly mixed up in something foul!” I froze, humiliated. Kevin, seeing the scene, snatched the elegant box from my hand. His face instantly turned to stone. “It’s over! Get out of my house right now!” He slammed the box onto the slate floor. The delicate petit fours inside shattered, turning to dust. Kevin’s father burst from the kitchen, grabbing a shovel leaning by the hearth, ready to drive me out. “Get out! Bringing a thing like that to my door, are you trying to wish death on me?” I stared at the ruins on the floor, my mind utterly blank. 1 “How could they just humiliate me like that? It was just a box of fancy matcha shortbread!” Clutching my phone, I sobbed uncontrollably to Maya, my best friend, recounting the cruelty I’d suffered at Kevin’s family home. “Are you sure they were just… regular pastries?” Maya’s voice was strained with suspicion. Tears streamed down my face, splattering onto my hand. “Of course! I even waited in line at that trendy, artisanal bakery downtown. Each box cost me a fortune!” “And when I first arrived, everyone in the village was so friendly, but the second Kevin’s dad smashed the box, they all looked at me like I was a murderer.” “I’ve been thrown out. I’m standing alone at the edge of town, and I honestly can’t understand it. Are small towns in the South this obsessed with bizarre superstitions?” Hearing my voice crack with despair, Maya quickly tried to soothe me. “Okay, honey, calm down. First, send me a picture of the pastry box and the receipt.” “Don’t worry. If this is just some twisted, localized game they’re playing to bully you, I’ll drive up there with my brother and we’ll trash their porch for you.” That promise of solidarity provided a momentary anchor. My hands trembling, I opened the ordering app, found the receipt, and sent the product page and the order details to Maya. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang. I took a shaky breath, ready to lean into her for comfort, but the voice that answered was tight, barely recognizable, and edged with a terrifying tremor. “That order—is this really what you bought?” “Is that what you intended to bring to his parents?” That familiar, ominous shift in tone—Kevin had asked me the same thing right before he smashed the box. My heart plummeted. I instinctively tried to explain, but Maya’s voice suddenly became sharp and piercing, like she was talking to a complete stranger. “Joanna, I honestly regret every year I’ve known you!” “You psycho. How could you do something so evil, so morally depraved? Those are living, breathing people!” “Don’t ever contact me again. I feel sick.” She hung up, giving me no chance to defend myself. When I tried to call back, I only heard the sterile “The user you are trying to reach is unavailable.” My texts were met with the unforgiving red exclamation point. I stood on the curb of the unfamiliar street, the icy wind biting at me. I felt as if I’d been struck by lightning. Someone please tell me what is happening! 2 In a state of shock, I took a taxi back to my city apartment late that night. I pulled out my keys, but before I could turn the lock, the door was yanked open from the inside. It was my parents. Their faces were ashen and grim. Two of my packed suitcases sat at their feet. My mother, whose eyes were always filled with loving patience, looked at me now with nothing but cold loathing. Before I could step across the threshold, she shoved the heavy luggage out the door, the case nearly slamming onto my feet. “Dad? Mom? What are you doing?” I panicked, scrambling to grab my mother’s arm, my tears starting again. “It’s bad enough Kevin’s family bullied me. Why are you doing this, too?” “I’m your only daughter. You’re supposed to stand up for me right now!” “Please, even if you’re kicking me out, at least tell me what I did wrong!” My father stood behind her, a cigarette burning between his fingers, refusing to even look at me. I was air. My mother violently wrenched her arm free, the force sending me stumbling backward into the hallway wall. The dull ache in my back was nothing compared to the terror seizing my chest. My mother, who never raised her voice, pointed a trembling finger directly at my nose. “Don’t call me Mom! Our family doesn’t breed evil like you!” “Relatives were calling to scream at me, and I defended you—until I saw that order screenshot…” “Joanna, do you have a heart at all? That was a gift for elders! How dare you give them that?” Leaning against the cold plaster, I cried out in despair. “It was just a few pastries! I won’t buy that brand again! Is that it?” “Just because I didn’t understand some ancient custom, did I deserve a death sentence? Did Kevin brainwash you all?” At the mention of the "pastry," my father snapped. He lunged forward, raising his hand to strike me, but stopped in mid-air, his eyes filled with agonizing disappointment. “You created this mess, and you have the nerve to blame others?” “Bringing that kind of cursed item to their home… you want the entire world to point fingers at us?!” “Get out! Now! If you have any decency left, disappear and never show your face again!” The door slammed shut with a final, brutal sound. The cold, hard click of the deadbolt severed the last connection I had to my home. I sank to the floor in the hallway, hugging my knees. The whole world was spinning, collapsing. If I was truly in the wrong, why wouldn't a single person explain to me what those boxes of pastries actually represented? To be abandoned like this, over an unnamed crime—I refused to accept it! 3 I slept fitfully in a cheap hotel, my eyes swollen from crying. The next morning, I went straight to the nearest police precinct. On the way, I decided to test the waters. I stopped a kind-looking old woman on the street and showed her the photo of the pastry box on my phone. At first, the woman smiled warmly. “Oh, that packaging is quite elegant. A lovely gift.” My spirits lifted. I quickly asked, “And what if I were to give this to my boyfriend’s parents?” The smile vanished instantly. It was replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated terror and disgust, like she’d just seen a plague rat. “Pah! Such depravity!” She spat a glob of phlegm near my feet and swung the shopping bag in her hand, hitting my shoulder. “Young people today! Doing such despicable, evil things! Why don't you just get hit by a bus!” Bystanders noticed the commotion and gathered around. They didn't know the cause at first, but when they heard the old woman reference the reason, their expressions darkened. They looked at me as if they wanted to tear me limb from limb. Terrified, I turned and ran, nearly twisting my ankle. Even so, I was determined to know the truth. At the police station, I poured out the entire absurd story to the officers, feeling like I was finally grabbing hold of a lifeline. Tears running down my face, I placed my phone on the desk. “Officers, I don’t understand. Everyone is acting insane.” “I just bought a few pastries. How did I become a public enemy?” The officer dealing with me, a young woman, was joined by a veteran cop. Both looked grave. The young woman handed me a tissue. “Ma’am, based on your description, if this isn't some massive cultural misunderstanding, it is highly unusual.” “Rest assured, we are law enforcement. We deal with evidence and law, not emotions. Let us see the photo of this item.” Hearing that, the knot in my stomach loosened a bit. Here, at least, was a semblance of logic. My fingers shaking, I tapped open the product page and slid the phone across the desk. However, the instant the two police officers saw the screen, that same chilling, familiar, and utterly suffocating atmosphere descended again. 4 The young officer’s previously gentle gaze sharpened into cold steel. She sprang to her feet, her hand instinctively resting on the equipment belt at her waist, as if I were an extremely dangerous terrorist. The veteran officer’s face was dark, staring at me with contempt and deep suspicion. “Ma’am, are you seriously trying to play games with us?” He slammed his hand on the desk, the sound loud enough to make my ears ring. “You purchase an item like that and then come here claiming innocence?” “We now have serious concerns that you may be attempting to endanger public safety or may be involved in a fraud scheme. We require your immediate cooperation!” I was too stunned by the abrupt shift to speak. My back pressed against the chair, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “Officers, it’s matcha shortbread! I checked the ingredients multiple times—it’s just green tea and sugar!” “What law have I broken?” The veteran officer sneered. “Matcha shortbread? I think you’ve got mush in your head!” Ignoring my pleas, he ordered the young officer to search me and demanded my ID and phone. They began running my information through the system. In that moment, I felt stripped bare, standing under a spotlight, every last shred of my dignity crushed. Half an hour later, they confirmed I had no criminal record, but their attitude did not thaw. The young officer tossed my ID back onto the desk, her voice like ice. “Ms. Bishop, while there is no evidence at this time that you have caused substantive harm, your actions are a severe violation of public decency and order.” “I am warning you: if you dare to parade this item around or attempt to harass the victims' family, this will be more than just a verbal warning.” I gripped the edge of the table, utterly distraught. “Can you just tell me why? Why is everyone acting like this?” “Even if you sentence me, you have to tell me the crime! I’m going crazy! Am I having a psychotic break, or has the whole world lost its mind?” The two officers exchanged weary, impatient glances. The veteran sighed, pointing toward the door with an expression of dismissive disgust. “You absolutely need to see a doctor.” “Go to Metropolitan General and see a psychiatrist. Maybe a professional can help you clear your head and realize the heinous thing you’ve done.” “Now get out. You’re wasting our time.” I was ejected from the precinct and sank onto the curb, sobbing uncontrollably. Had I truly gone mad? In the memory of buying the pastry, had I actually bought poison or a bomb? To give myself a definitive answer, to avoid being destroyed by an unknown charge, I wiped my eyes, hailed a cab, and headed straight for the mental health ward. In the consultation room, facing an older, professional-looking doctor with graying hair, I fought hard to control my emotions. I recounted the events of the last two days as clearly and logically as possible: the neighbor’s spitting, my parents’ expulsion, the police warning. The doctor listened intently, occasionally making notes on his pad. When I finished, he adjusted his glasses and asked in a calm, even tone: “And the source of all this conflict, the box of pastry—may I see it?” I was a coiled spring of fear. I hesitated, clutching my phone. The doctor seemed to sense my terror and gave me a gentle smile. “I’m a doctor, Joanna. I’ve seen countless bizarre things.” “In this room, the patient is always the priority. You have nothing to fear from me.” His professionalism and compassion gave me the final push. I closed my eyes and handed him the phone, bracing myself to be dismissed like garbage. Time stretched on. Every second felt like an eternity. After a full minute, the doctor returned the phone. His expression hadn't changed. He remained utterly calm, compassionate, and gentle. There was no anger, no disgust, not even a flicker of surprise. “Ms. Bishop, this box of pastry… you genuinely bought it as a gift for your boyfriend’s parents, correct?” he asked softly. I held my breath, nodding cautiously, worried this was another trap. “Yes. I bought it for them.” The expected explosion of rage never came. Instead, the doctor heavily circled something on his pad, looked up, and held a gaze I couldn’t quite decipher. “It seems my initial hypothesis was correct.” “Ms. Bishop, your cognitive function is unimpaired. Your mental state is completely sound.” Hearing the word “sound,” my tightly wound nerves snapped. Tears erupted from my eyes. I collapsed onto my knees, desperately clutching the doctor’s white coat, like he was the last piece of floating wreckage. “Doctor, if I’m not crazy, then what is it?” “Please tell me why everyone is trying to destroy me over this one box! You know the answer, don’t you? Please!” The doctor sighed, helped me up, and pointed to the phone on the desk, his voice tinged with a weary disappointment. “The answer, Joanna, is not complicated.” 5 “The key to all your problems lies within the pastry itself.” “Because what you bought… is precisely this box of pastry.” That utterly useless statement nearly made me faint. If he hadn’t been so calm moments before, I would have thrown the stethoscope at him. I gritted my teeth, fighting the urge to curse him. My voice shook with frustration. “Doctor, I paid three hundred dollars for this appointment, not to hear circular logic.” “I know I bought the pastry. The question is, why is it universally condemned? If this is some common knowledge taboo, why have I, a person who’s lived twenty-seven years, never heard of it?” The doctor was unperturbed by my outburst. He shook his head and sat back down. “No, Ms. Bishop, you’re still thinking in terms of taboo.” “Some things aren't taboos; they are imposed narratives.” “In the current social climate, you don’t understand because you are standing in an information silo.” “Go home. Shift your focus from other people’s reactions to the source of this specific pastry. Pay attention to how it came to you.” “Perhaps you’ll realize that many things, from the very beginning, were simply a well-laid trap.” As I was ushered out of the consultation room, the doctor's vague words were the only thing echoing in my head. Focus on the source? The source was a link Kevin sent me. He told me it was the most respectful gift in his hometown, and that I had to get this specific item, with this exact packaging, from that exact shop. On the ride home, I went over those details again and again. My phone vibrated—a message in the company chat. My supervisor tagged me: “Joanna, there’s an emergency meeting tomorrow morning. No matter what personal issues you have, you must be present.” Staring at the screen, I took a deep breath. Whatever the truth was, life had to continue. I wouldn’t be defeated. At least the doctor had given me a new perspective: this could be a trap. The next day, I arrived at the office with dark circles under my eyes. The atmosphere was palpably wrong. The usually noisy break room fell silent the moment I stepped past it. Several colleagues I considered friends immediately lowered their heads, pretending to work, avoiding eye contact. I walked to my desk. Before I could sit down, my supervisor, Beth, walked over with a file. She slapped the document onto my desk, her eyes filled with unconcealed contempt. Her voice was loud enough for the entire office to hear. “Joanna, the company is conducting a background review. Due to serious concerns regarding your personal character, we believe you are unsuitable for your current position.” “This is your termination letter. Sign it.” I shot to my feet. “Beth, I’ve worked diligently for three years and never made a mistake! Why are you firing me?” “Even if it’s a ‘character issue,’ you need proof! What exactly did I do?” Beth scoffed, pulling out her phone and shoving a picture in my face. “Proof? This is the proof! Sending an item like this as a gift to an elderly couple!” “The entire industry chat is buzzing about it. Our company cannot afford this kind of scandal!” “You have the nerve to ask? Kevin’s family was being kind! If it were me, I’d have had you arrested!” It was the screenshot of my pastry order. My blood turned to ice. Beyond Kevin and me, absolutely no one knew what the final order details looked like. Even Maya, who had since blocked me, only got the product link, not the full receipt with my name and address! The source of the leak was undeniable. The surrounding colleagues began whispering, their voices carrying. “I can’t believe it. She seemed so quiet, but she’s truly wicked on the inside.” “I know. I heard that cake is specifically used for hexes. I’d be afraid of crossing her.” “I’d be worried about bad karma just working with her. Get her out of here now.” Listening to the vicious remarks, a strange calm washed over me. A hex? Specifically for a curse? So that was the narrative they had all received. I didn't argue further. I picked up a pen and signed the termination letter cleanly. If someone had gone to such lengths to destroy me, extending the siege to my workplace, this was far beyond a simple misunderstanding. This was an organized, full-spectrum ambush.
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