The Challah Incident of 5786
It was Rosh Hashanah, the birthday of the world, and Fin was very much not in the mood to celebrate. September 14th had left him gutted: Shams had purred out his last breath in Fin’s arms, leaving behind only memories, a crater of grief, and a faint sense that his house had lost its axis.
Now the candles flickered, the apples gleamed, and the honey shimmered golden in its dish—but Fin just sat at the kitchen table, sleeves pulled over his hands, staring at the empty chair where Shams should have been.
Or “empty.” Because Shams was still very much there, lounging spectral and smug on the counter, ghost-fur glowing faintly silver like moonlight through smoke.
“You’re sulking,” Shams observed, tail flicking lazily through a fruit bowl. “Sulking does not pair well with pomegranate.”
“Not sulking,” Fin mumbled. “Just… missing you.”
Shams tilted his head, eyes glowing with that old, insufferable confidence. “Missing me, yes. But sulking, also yes.”
That was when Zef barged in, dragging Snorb by the arm and announcing, “Emergency intervention! Operation: Bread of Joy!”
Snorb, purple ears flapping in indignation, added, “We’re making challah! Because carbs fix everything! Except maybe broken toasters.”
Fin blinked at them. “You know I’m celiac, right? This isn’t a gluten-optional situation.”
“Of course,” Zef sniffed. “We Googled.”
Ghost!Shams stretched like a king surveying fools. “This is going to be terrible. I approve.”
Now the candles flickered, the apples gleamed, and the honey shimmered golden in its dish—but Fin just sat at the kitchen table, sleeves pulled over his hands, staring at the empty chair where Shams should have been.
Or “empty.” Because Shams was still very much there, lounging spectral and smug on the counter, ghost-fur glowing faintly silver like moonlight through smoke.
“You’re sulking,” Shams observed, tail flicking lazily through a fruit bowl. “Sulking does not pair well with pomegranate.”
“Not sulking,” Fin mumbled. “Just… missing you.”
Shams tilted his head, eyes glowing with that old, insufferable confidence. “Missing me, yes. But sulking, also yes.”
That was when Zef barged in, dragging Snorb by the arm and announcing, “Emergency intervention! Operation: Bread of Joy!”
Snorb, purple ears flapping in indignation, added, “We’re making challah! Because carbs fix everything! Except maybe broken toasters.”
Fin blinked at them. “You know I’m celiac, right? This isn’t a gluten-optional situation.”
“Of course,” Zef sniffed. “We Googled.”
Ghost!Shams stretched like a king surveying fools. “This is going to be terrible. I approve.”
The first disaster came with the flour. Zef, determined to be precise, used Fin’s best Star Wars mug as a measuring cup. Snorb, meanwhile, decided “gluten-free” meant you had to put extra of everything else in: four eggs, three glugs of olive oil, and half a jar of honey.
“It looks like swamp muck,” Fin said flatly.
“It looks like art,” Zef corrected, elbow-deep in the sludge.
“It looks like cat-astrophe,” Shams purred, grooming a spectral paw.
Snorb stirred so hard the spoon snapped in half. He shrugged and used his hand.
They left the bowl on the counter, covered with a towel, just like the instructions (roughly) said. Ten minutes later, the towel twitched.
“Maybe it’s rising extra fast?” Snorb whispered hopefully.
The bowl burped. The towel flung itself off. The dough sat up, dripping honey, raisin-eyes blinking.
“Shanah tovah!” it bellowed in a voice like Morgan Freeman gargling yeast.
Fin stared. “You made sentient challah.”
“I told you,” ghost!Shams said smugly. “Disaster.”
The challah did not want to stay in the bowl. It wanted freedom. It rolled itself across the counter, oozed down a chair, and began galloping across the linoleum like a sticky dog.
Butters, who was the size of a small bear but carried himself like a three-month kitten, perked up. “I’m baby!” he declared, and pounced.
The challah shrieked, flinging flour clouds everywhere. Butters rolled with it, kicking his back legs. Zef tried to help but got his beard glued to the countertop. Snorb went for a football tackle, shouting “I GOT THIS!” only to be hurled across the room by a honey-coated tendril.
Fin finally stood, arms crossed. “This is my kitchen. We are not being defeated by bread.”
Shams floated above him, eyes glowing brighter. “Then claim your throne, human. Show the loaf who’s boss.”
It took strategy. Butters played decoy, rolling on the floor and chanting “I’m baby!” until the sentient challah grew confused. Zef managed to free his beard with an entire bottle of canola oil, then flung himself heroically onto the creature’s back. Snorb tied its raisin-eyes together with a piece of yarn.
Finally, Fin approached, calm and steady. He dipped an apple slice into honey, held it out, and whispered, “L’shanah tovah.”
The challah froze. Slowly, it reached for the offering. And then, with a groan of defeat, collapsed into a perfectly braided loaf, golden and steaming.
Zef lay panting on the floor. Snorb was coated in tapioca starch from head to toe. Butters licked honey off his paws and murmured, “I’m baby.”
And Fin, for the first time in weeks, laughed until his stomach hurt.
Later, when the kitchen had been more or less scraped back to order, the candles burned low and the challah—now obedient and non-sentient—rested sliced on the table. Fin sat alone for a moment, quiet.
Ghost!Shams appeared beside him, brushing against his side the way he used to. His spectral body shimmered like starlight, but the weight of him was real enough in Fin’s heart.
“You’re mine,” Shams purred, curling spectral paws into Fin’s lap. “Always was. Always will be.”
Fin’s eyes blurred with tears. “I miss you so much.”
Shams leaned close, nose to nose, his glow warming Fin’s cheek. “Then let me haunt you properly. Not with sorrow. With joy. With bread monsters. With idiots who love you.”
Fin laughed, hiccupped, wiped his face. “Fine. You’re the boss.”
Shams purred, smug as ever. “Damn right.”
And as the year turned, grief still heavy but sweetness breaking through, Fin felt the warmth of both worlds—the living and the gone—wrapped around him like the softest of blessings.
