Bertha handed me the grocery list like it was a royal decree.
"Now don't lose it," she warned, tapping the paper three times for emphasis. "And don't get distracted. And don't talk to strangers unless you must. And don't get robbed. And—"
"Grandma," I said gently, "I'll be fine."
She squinted at me. "Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Absolutely certain?"
"Yes."
"Absolutely certain certain?"
I stared.
She sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if you come back with onions instead of butter again, I'll tan your hide."
"That happened once!"
"Once is enough!"
With that terrifying threat of hide-tanning lingering in the air, I left the bookstore with Bertha's woven bag over my shoulder and her grocery list in my hand.
Outside, the afternoon plaza was bustling—street vendors hollering, children weaving between stalls, horses clopping down the cobblestone path. The air smelled of bread, spice, freshly cut fruit, and occasionally wet dog.
"Okay," I muttered to myself. "Step one: groceries. Step two: survive."
I opened the list.
— Onions
— Butter
— Chicken
— Bread
— Something sweet for Alya, because apparently she's "too cranky lately"
— (Grandma added that last one in the smallest handwriting possible.)
The currency system was still beyond me, but Bertha had given me coins: copper, iron, and one intimidating platinum coin "just in case everything explodes."
"Please don't use that one," she'd said. "People will think you're rich and then you'll get stabbed."
Comforting.
I approached the onion stall first.
The onion man was a large fellow with arms like tree trunks and a mustache so magnificent it deserved its own postal code.
"One onion, please."
"Two copper," he grunted.
I gave him two copper.
Onion: ✔️
Next: Butter.
The butter lady was humming as she arranged her jars. She handed me a small slab wrapped in wax paper.
"Five copper, sweetheart."
Done.
Butter: ✔️
Then the chicken vendor.
"Bird or breast?" he asked, holding up both.
"Uh… yes?"
He laughed and handed me two wrapped cuts of chicken.
"On sale today. Three iron."
I carefully counted three iron coins.
Chicken: ✔️
The last item: Bread.
The bakery stall smelled like heaven—warm dough, brown sugar, toasted crust. I picked the biggest, fluffiest loaf on the table.
"Seven copper."
I paid, tucked the bread carefully into the bag, smiled proudly to myself—
—and then tragedy struck.
A pigeon swooped down from the heavens like a feathery demon of sin, grabbed the loaf in its beak, and FLEW AWAY.
I stared.
Mouth open.
Mind blank.
"NO—HEY—YOU—COME BACK—THAT'S NOT FOR YOU!"
The pigeon flapped triumphantly, bread dangling like a trophy.
I dropped my bag, ignored the stares, and sprinted after it.
"I WILL COOK YOU FOR DINNER IF YOU DON'T GIVE THAT BACK—!"
The pigeon evaded me with expert maneuvers. Aerial flips. Mocking chirps. Unnecessary twirls like it was performing for a crowd.
The chase began.
I found it first in a side alley, sitting smugly on a barrel.
I crept toward it.
Slow.
Slow…
CRUNCH.
I stepped on a twig.
The pigeon startled, bread still clamped in its beak, and shot skyward with a taunting chirp.
"You did that on purpose!" I yelled.
Next, I found it sitting on a rooftop with what appeared to be several pigeon friends.
It was holding my bread like a mob boss at a meeting.
"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me…"
I threw a small pebble at the group.
It missed.
They all glared at me.
I retreated quickly.
Finally, after twenty frustrating minutes, I spotted the thief perched on a small café table near the plaza center.
Alone.
Just it and my bread.
My eyes narrowed.
I lowered myself to the ground, flattening into a ridiculous crawling pose. My elbows scraped stone. My boots dragged. My heart pounded.
I was a predator.
A hunter.
A silent stalker.
I slithered forward like a snake, inch by inch.
"Got you now…" I whispered.
The pigeon tilted its head innocently.
I tensed.
Ready.
Ready—
The pigeon grabbed the loaf and flew off again.
I sat there.
Silent.
Broken.
Emotionally destroyed.
"Grandma… is going to kill me…" I whispered hollowly, staring into the void.
My pockets felt suddenly light.
I reached in.
Empty.
EMPTY.
"Oh gods… I lost the coins too…"
This was it.
My legacy.
The girl who battled a pigeon and lost everything.
I trudged back to the bakery stall like a condemned criminal.
The bread seller looked up.
"I… uh… lost the bread," I said softly.
He blinked.
"…Did a pigeon take it?"
I nodded shamefully.
He burst out laughing.
Not a chuckle.
Not a polite laugh.
He bent over the counter wheezing.
"Oh—ha!—gods—that bird!—you're the third today!"
"THIRD?"
"Oh yeah! He's notorious. Bread Thief of the Plaza. Little menace."
He handed me a new loaf.
"On the house."
"…Really?"
"Consider it compensation for emotional damage."
I accepted it gratefully, clutching it like a newborn child.
When I returned to the bookstore, Bertha turned around mid-shelving.
"Oh good, you're ba—good heavens, child, what happened to you?"
I looked like I had fought a war.
Alya peeked from behind a bookshelf.
"Well?" she asked sweetly. "Did you get everything?"
I proudly held up the bread.
Alya blinked.
"…Where's everything else?"
Silence.
Slowly, realization dawned on me.
The list.
The bags.
The chicken.
The butter.
The onions.
Everything.
Gone.
Left behind in my pigeon-induced sprint.
My knees buckled.
"NOOO—!!"
Alya laughed so hard she fell over.
Bertha sighed deeply. "Back out you go, child."
So I ran.
Again.
Because this time, failure was not an option.