The rolling hills of Buttershire trembled as the Breakfast Guild assembled on the Marmalade Moors. The earth, sticky with uncertainty (and possibly jam), pulsed beneath the weight of reconvening destiny. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon, tension, and that one candle everyone keeps re-gifting labeled "Serenity + Wild Fig."
Gregory stood at the center, now wearing the ceremonial Muffin Cloak—a dense, crumbly garment bestowed only upon those who had metaphorically overcooked themselves but kept going anyway.
Maurice, still very much a pigeon and still very much in his "Progress, But Make It Pigeon" hat, fluttered beside him with the gravitas of a pigeon who had seen things. Things like people texting "on my way" while still in the shower.
Diane floated in, somehow even more layered in shawls of emotional nuance. Behind her, Bartholofluff hovered, wielding the Bellini Bell of Brave Re-Entries.
