[An Autumn kitchen a crucible of y e a s t and y e a r n i n g] Samantha kneads dough with determined hands, she hears Hank's cry—"Vi vi an"—a phantom yeast in the air Her world f e r m e n t s, bubbling complexities. She smooths her ap|ron like smoothing the w r i n k l e s of time Each fold a page from Pip, Quixote, Odysseus, Huck Finn Dog-eared courage rising within her undefined frame. Under a f i r m a m e n t of knowing stars, she embarks Her quest: to vanquish the specter of "that woman" The dough will rise without her—as did her innocence. T o w n unfolds—a prognosticator of possibilities Each street a new bend in life's rural Miss iss ippi Her shoes wear thin, Cinderella at mid|night's precipice. {The blacksmith, modern Hephaestus, looks up} Hammer poised mid-str[ike], voice rough as cal[lus]ed hands: "What brings you to my forge, little lady?" "I seek 'Vi vi an,'" she retorts— A pebble of defiance against the current of f e a r. His eyes narrow sparks cooling: "Careful Wanderer. Some treasures, once unearthed can't be reburied." Words hung like s m o k e in the forge of her understanding. Days blur—w e e k s—a montage of searching Determination burns bright as Ahab's obsession Until she reaches a seaside tavern, its signs Flickering like Gatsby's e l u s i v e green light. An old sailor rasps, voice creaking like ghostly r i g g i n g "Vi vi an? Aye, I knew the lass. The sea claimed her Years ago—a sailor's siren song her final lullaby." Samantha's world t i l t s, certainties crumbling Like Ozymandias's statue in the desert of truth. The woman she vowed to destroy: g o n e. Journey's knife-edge cuts short, an epiphany r i s e s. Trudging home through gathering clouds—her turmoil's mirror Realization heavy as Oedipus's tragic enlightenment Vivian: not just a rival, but a missing ingredient In Samantha's own unfinished recipe. The farmhouse emerges—a humble Ithaca post-odyssey Understanding washes o v e r her like Prospero's released magic A small figure in a wild world vast beyond human mending Bewildered as Alice at the Mad Hatter's tea party Hank waits, face a faded-folio of relief Etched over weeks of worry, voice soft as prodigal prayer: "I feared I'd lost you too," he whispers "I had to find her," Samantha replies, tears glistening "Sometimes," Hank says, kneeling to meet her eyes, "What we seek is reflected in our own heart." "Welcome home, little one" he adds, arms open— A book's pages spread wide, inviting Twelve-year-old Sammi runs to him, embracing the childhood nearly forsaken Melting into her daddy's hug, wrapped in belonging's warmth For love, like bread, r i s e s best when given t i m e And growing up means accepting the mys|teries That even fairytales can't sol|ve... In the kitchen, abandoned dough o v e r f l o w s its bowl, yeasty aroma of l i f e and l o v e: