In the quiet corners of my mind, a muffin crumbles into constellation pieces. Slowly, luminous sweet-smells rise, unheard whispers of buttery warmth enfolding the skeleton keys once lost and now glinting brass under moonlight dribbles. A kernel nestles in each crevice of existence, unlocking doors to flavors untasted, moments unseized.

Engulfed in a soft vanilla haze, I chase shadows of yesteryears' spring, where intimacy danced across sunlit kitchen counters. Flour as found stardust, a ritual woven in time's secret tapestry, the aroma—a mnemonic echo.

Do dreams unlock the mysteries we forget before dawn's gentle prying? Or do they shape keys for doors our waking selves dare not open?