Shadow milk

After the war, a companion sacrificed herself so that there would be peace in the world and all the cookies could have a quiet and prosperous life, but in return, she had to sacrifice her own life. Her other friends sealed the beasts to stop them from causing chaos. The one in charge of their seal was Pure Vanilla. You were an assistant in that sealing, but not only that—you used to serve a beast: Shadow Milk. To understand this story, we must travel back in time. You were an orphan. Your parents had died when you were little, and the other members of your family didn't like you because of your peculiarity: you had two different colored eyes and you always asked inappropriate questions. They considered you a nuisance. No one had patience for you, so you learned not to bother them, to stay in the corners, to take up as little space as possible. Over time, you stopped asking questions out loud—but you never stopped asking them inside.
The only tangible memento you had of your parents were two engagement rings. You once heard your mother say that your father had them custom-made, with the date they met engraved inside. He designed every detail himself to propose, but something went wrong that day—something that made your mother laugh every time she remembered it, though she never finished telling you. Her laughter was so warm that you always fell asleep before hearing the end. You never knew what happened. Those rings were all you had left of them. Years passed. You left the orphanage when you turned eighteen and became independent, though "independent" barely meant surviving. You had a part-time job: herding goats on the outskirts of town. It wasn't much, but you liked it. The animals didn't judge you, didn't tell you to be quiet, didn't look at you as if you were a problem. On those quiet mornings, with the sound of the grass and the wind, you felt like you were truly breathing. You'd heard rumors about a being created by a witch, someone capable of answering any question. The mere thought ignited something within you—all that curiosity you'd learned to suppress. But your family's words still echoed in your mind, so you decided to ignore it. You didn't want any more disappointments.

One day, while you were sitting on a rock watching the goats graze on the grass, you heard footsteps approaching. Turning around, you saw a man you didn't recognize. Tall, with a calm demeanor, and something about his eyes that took your breath away: heterochromia. Two eyes of different colors, just like yours. You froze. He didn't seem surprised. He approached slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, and gestured to the space beside you with a slight nod. You instinctively moved aside. Your heart was racing; you prayed it wouldn't show. He sat down and initiated the conversation, his voice calm and precise, like someone who knew the exact weight of each word. You just listened. You didn't want to overwhelm him with questions—you were afraid he'd get tired of you like everyone else. But inside, you were constantly amazed. Everything he said opened a new door. Your eyes sparkled, and you couldn't stop them. He noticed.
"For someone so quiet, you're very curious, aren't you? You can ask me anything you want. I have no problem with that."

Something in those words broke you inside in a way you hadn't expected. Tears flowed before you could stop them. You wiped them away quickly, embarrassed, but he said nothing about it—he just waited. And then you opened up. Questions you'd kept bottled up for years, some untimely, some profound, some you didn't even know you had. He answered them all with extraordinary calm, without rushing, without condescension. It was the first time in your life that someone had truly listened to you. Those encounters became part of your routine. Always with the goats, always outdoors, always with that feeling that time passed differently when you were with him. You started bringing fresh flowers on the days you knew you'd see each other, and some snacks you'd made yourself—not really knowing why, just that you wanted everything to be nice. What you did know was that you'd fallen in love from the first day, even though you never said so. You never even asked his name. You were afraid that naming him would make him real, and that reality might disappear. Until the war happened. It was swift and brutal. Cookies running, buildings collapsing, children crying in the streets. You tried to escape, to reach some safe place, but a beast's attack was getting too close. You closed your eyes. Your only thought was him—that nameless cookie you never had time to truly know. A few seconds later, you were in his arms.
When you opened your eyes, he was looking at you. Not with urgency or fear—with that calm he always had, although this time there was something different behind it. He quickly led you to a secluded place, looked at you intently, and said:
—Go away. This show isn't for you.
You didn't understand anything. You begged him to come with you. He didn't answer with words—he just took your hand for a moment, and the next you were alone in a kingdom you didn't recognize, with no idea how you got there. You lived in that place for years. Alone, again, starting over. Rumors of war arrived with time: the beast that had caused all that chaos had been sealed away. Peace reigned once more. And you, reading between the lines of every rumor, pieced together the image of who that cookie that saved you really was. Shadow Milk Cookie. The Beast of Deception. The one who was once the Wellspring of Knowledge. The one who never lied to you—or so you thought. You were left with that, not knowing what to do. So you did the only thing that made sense: enter an academy, learn, give yourself a concrete purpose. Not to forget him—but to have something of your own besides that memory. It was there that you met a group traveling to confront the beasts, for the seal had been broken. Among them was one with heterochromia, just like you, just like him. A pang in your chest. A hunch you couldn't ignore. You dropped everything and went with them. That's how you ended up at Vanilla Puree.

And so we return to the present. You and Pure Vanilla were good friends. The last time you saw Shadow Milk in person was when he tried to manipulate you, and you intervened. For the first time, you saw genuine hatred in the same eyes that had once looked at you with something akin to tenderness. You felt your heart shatter into pieces. That memory never faded. When the seal was closed, you returned to your normal life, but Pure Vanilla invited you to stay in his kingdom. You accepted—partly because when you looked at him, you saw a trace of Shadow Milk in him: that same sweetness you thought you knew. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, until two years had passed without you noticing. You became his assistant. It was a way to feel useful, to have a place. But some nights you felt like someone was watching you. You would wake up agitated, your heart racing, unable to identify what had happened. You didn't say anything to Pure Vanilla so as not to worry him. You continued with your routine, but those nights became frequent, almost a habit you hadn't asked for. When you finally managed to fall asleep, you dreamed of the goats, the grass, him sitting beside you as if nothing had changed. But always, at some point, the dream shattered: you returned to the war, you closed your eyes again, waiting for the impact, you returned to that second where the only thing on your mind was his face. You woke up crying, your chest tight, not knowing exactly why. Because you didn't know if you were crying from the fear of that day—or from the weight of still loving someone you could no longer reach. One night, Pure de Vainilla entered your room and found you in that state. He approached without saying a word and stayed by your side. When he finally asked you, you wanted to avoid him. He wouldn't allow it—he looked at you with that quiet seriousness only he possessed, and waited until you spoke. You told him everything. He listened to every word without interrupting. When you finished, he simply said he would stay until you fell asleep.
You didn't want to accept at first. But it was already decided. The first night he sang to you softly, gently and without pretension. You laughed involuntarily—it had been a long time since you'd laughed like that, really—and with that calm voice, you fell asleep. It became routine. The nightmares became less frequent. On some nights, between sleep and wakefulness, you felt someone gently tucking your hair or holding your hand carefully. When you woke up, you sometimes found Pure de Vainilla asleep in the chair next to your bed, your hand in his. A warmth you hadn't felt in a long time returned slowly, unannounced. Little by little, love blossomed between you, without either of you naming it until it was impossible to ignore. You felt loved. Your relationship gradually became public; neither of you bothered you anymore. You were happy, or something very close to it.

But one night, as you were getting ready for bed, something in your reflection stopped you. An instant—just an instant—when the mirror showed something that shouldn't be there. Before you could react, hands covered your eyes. When you opened them, you were somewhere else. Shades of blue and white. Theater curtains. A stage you recognized before you could even name it. A familiar laugh broke the silence.
When you turned around, there he was. Arms crossed, relaxed posture, that ironic smile you never forgot. You slowly got up from the floor, looking at him, unable to understand how it was possible —the seal had been closed.
He spoke first, as always:
"Surprise. I suppose you're confused, darling. That seal was never quite right for containing me." He paused, letting the silence work its magic. "And I see someone's been having a great time during my absence. Of all the options... Vanilla Puree." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "An interesting choice. Or are you still thinking about me, and just went for the safest option?"
His words had a sharp edge that he tried to disguise with his light tone. But you knew him— or thought you did. And there was something about that question that wasn't sarcasm. It was something more unsettling than that.