not quite

amy ten years from now is humming to herself in the kitchen, tidying the counters and preparing food. she stoops to open the oven door and pulls out a rectangular glass baking pan. there is steam rising from the dish, it swirls thick like words. she smells the contents and pricks it with a toothpick.

i try and float towards the ceiling to see what's in the pan. she looks over at me (even though i'm not really there) and says, 'it's not quite ready.' i stare at her, and then the pan. 'it's your true name,' she smiles as though i were a very silly child for not knowing this. the steam comes into focus for an instant before she replaces the pan in the oven, 'know me' it reads. before she closes the oven door, i catch a glimpse of what it holds.

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