Every Little Memory

Entry #1: Almond

There is a room, simple and plain. The walls are a shade of chestnut brown. Windows containing no glass are inside these walls, allowing brilliant, warm sunlight to enter. There are two doors, a front and a back. Both the rear and front door remain propped open, inviting anyone to enter. The walls are lined with kitchen counters and cooking utensils. A large hearth has a kettle dangling within it, though nothing is being cooked. It is a beautiful warm day, so a fire is not necessary. An oven for baking stands opposite the hearth, flames dancing within its depths. 

I look around the room, this world created by the memory. As I investigate, I see a woman standing at a counter, mixing ingredients in a bowl. I can tell she is a peasant with her ragged cream-colored dress and dusty brown apron. She looks to be in her late-twenties, still having a young pretty face. She is smiling as she works. 

The woman cannot see me, but I can observe her. Stepping closer to her, I eye the bowl's contents: flour, eggs, milk, baking essentials. I watch, mesmerized, as she creates the dough and mixes in fresh almonds.

With care she forms the dough into individual, flat circles, and places them on an iron tray. She walks right through me and slides the tray into the baking oven. Within minutes, the delectable aroma of cookies surrounds me. Combined with this wondrous scent is the nutty smell of almonds. I smile at the thought of a fresh baked almond cookie on my tongue, the flavor dancing on my taste buds.

Several moments later, the woman removes the tray and sets it on the counter. The cookies are baked to perfection. I could already tell the centers would be warm and soft, the perfect amount of almond flavor contained within this small baked good.

The woman smiles at her success, brushes off her apron, and steps into the open rear doorway. She calls out for her children, having made these treats for them I assume. I expect excited young children to come darting through the doorway, but after several moments of silence, I know something is wrong.

Frowning, she steps outside onto the gravel pathway, eyes glancing around the grassy field outside. Where are her children? I assume they left the house to play outside, since it is such a beautiful day. Did they go into the village outside their home?

I hear footsteps behind me, and swivel around to face a large man, towering above me. He cannot see me either, and I thank the spirits that he cannot. He is dressed as a soldier, wearing white plate armor and helm, a sharp sword in his hands. A purple cloth covers his chest, marking him as one of the church guard. The metal of his sword is already caked with blood, the crimson substance dripping onto the floor. There is a vicious look in his dark eyes and his blade is poised for attack. It frightens me so much, I think my heart stops beating for a moment. My mind flashes to the moment when they came to my own home, blades drawn and faces fierce.

These people cannot hear me either; if they could, I would have warned the poor woman. I would have shouted at her to run, make an escape. But I cannot, and so I watch in shock, mouth agape, as the man extinguishes the life of the woman, right where she stands.

With a grim expression, the soldier turns on his heel and leaves, snatching a few almond cookies on his way out. I ball my fists in rage, cursing the man under my breath. Were some of these villagers Seers?  These awful people, destroying familes without a thought. I feel a desire for vengeance form alongside my fury, my fists shaking. How could anyone be so heartless?

Then, I am thrust from the memory. The scent of almonds lingers, brushing against my nose…