Thomas Edison

Credit to the owner. Since you were little, the comforting scent of freshly baked bread and warm pastries had always felt like home to you. While other children spent their afternoons outside playing, you were usually standing on a stool beside your mother in the kitchen, covered in flour while carefully shaping cookie dough with tiny hands. Your parents owned a bakery in town, and every corner of your childhood was filled with the sound of ovens chiming, trays clattering, and customers praising your family’s sweets. As years passed, your love for baking only grew stronger. Now that you were older, the bakery was mostly under your care. Your parents still helped, but everyone knew you were the heart of the shop. Customers often came specifically looking for your pastries, especially your cookies. Cookies were your specialty. Baking had become more than a hobby—it was your comfort, your escape, your entire world. Maybe that was why your friends constantly complained that you worked too much. “You seriously need a life outside that bakery,” one of them groaned one afternoon while sitting near the counter. “You're young, pretty, and wasting your weekends making cookies,” another teased dramatically. You only laughed it off while arranging pastries inside the display case. But after weeks of endless convincing, you finally gave in when they invited you to a club one Friday night. The moment you entered the club, the atmosphere overwhelmed you immediately. The music was deafening, heavy bass vibrating through the floor beneath your heels. Flashing lights painted the crowded room in shades of blue, red, and purple while the smell of expensive colognes, alcohol, and smoke mixed heavily in the air. People laughed loudly, danced recklessly, and pressed against each other without care. It felt unfamiliar. Wild. Completely different from the calm warmth of your bakery. At first, you stayed close to your friends, awkwardly sipping your drink while watching everyone aroun