At 5 a.m., the bakery is silent, except for the scratch of Madame Thorne’s pen. She believed fortunes should be handwritten. Typed words felt hollow, devoid of the weight true destiny deserved. She shaped each cookie with practiced precision, leaving just enough space to slide in a tiny slip of paper. Each cookie was a secret wrapped in dough, each personal, each burdened by fate.
Then came a sharp knock. It was not polite. Madame Thorne opened the door. A man stood before her, his face unfamiliar, yet his gaze held the weight of recognition.
“You wrote me a fortune once,” he says. “Time to write more.”
He steps inside, uninvited. He places a list on her table.
“You will write these fortunes in one hour and before the sunrise. Or, you will discover what it is like when the words stop coming.”
Her wrinkled fingers unfold the list. Her eyes widen as she reads it.
“I don’t do requests,” she whispers.
The man pulls a knife from his belt and drives the blade deep into her wood table.“You do now.”
She picks up the pen, the man’s forceful stare upon her. Slowly, she begins writing from the list.
For the blinding broker who lured me into ruin: your watch will stop, and as the hands fall still, so will you.
Madame Thorne looks up at the man. He watches and does not blink. His jaw pulses. “Write.”
For the lying lawyer who assured the contracts were airtight: you will choke on your own words with no one there to hear your final breath.
Madame Thorne rubbed her gnarled hands, cramped and crooked with age. She liked writing her own words on her own time, not under pressure.
“You don’t remember me,” the man says, his voice low. “But you will.” He hadn’t budged from standing by her table. His breath, hot and uneven, ghosted over her skin. His unrelenting gaze pinned her in place. “Write.”
For the smooth-talking speculator who masked the truth with false smiles: you will stumble and fall until the final step breaks you, and death greets you at the bottom.
She glanced at the man from the corner of her eye. A flicker of recognition jolted her memory. This man, months ago, cracked open a cookie and found the words:
The risk is great, but the reward will be greater.
She remembered writing that one. Fortunes didn’t just come from thin air. They found her, drifting from the fates unknown, each carrying a truth she could not escape. That one, she recalled, had come through loud and clear, a force that refused to be ignored.
“Write.”
For the false friends who shared in the spoils of betrayal: you will die together, and no one will remember your names.
She stole another glance at him, and in that instant, she knew. He had taken the risk and lost everything. Now, he was here to claim the one thing that had led him to ruin—her pen, her gift for shaping fate.
“Write.”
She looks down. There is one left.
For Madame Thorne: write your last fortune or be written out.
Her pen hovered over the blank paper strip, her wrinkled fingers trembling with the weight of words.
“Write your own fortune, your last fortune,” the man hissed. “You have two minutes.”
As the first hint of dawn crept over the horizon, her mind sat stubbornly still, tangled in the thorny grasp of her first instance of writer’s block. Each thought of a fortune slipped away before it could take shape. The murmurs of providence that once guided her fell silent, leaving only an echo of what might have been.
“Time’s up.” The man stepped forward and grabbed the slips and pen from her trembling hands.
The bakery opened as usual that morning. A fresh tray of fortune cookies sat on the counter.
All was quiet except for the scratch of a pen in the hands of a man seated at his table.
As for Madame Thorne? Never heard of her.
And those who received a cookie from that batch? Their fortunes came true— every single one.
The risk is great, but the reward will be greater.
