“Here we are, sugar plum. How does it feel?”

I stand next to my wife and swing a yellow hoof around her cyan shoulder. She responds by nuzzling into my neck with a sigh.

“It’s perfect, honey bun. Finally, our dream is coming true.”

Cup and I stand in shadow, cast by the afternoon sun behind the roof of the eye-catching building. Only a few cobblestoned steps remain for us to cross before we can cross the threshold for the first time. She lets out a sigh, places a kiss upon my left cheek and snuggles into me again.

The building towers over us. Spiraling up is a curly pink roof, not unlike the way Cup likes to apply icing to her famous, delicious cupcakes. A chimney—shaped like a chunk of chocolate nougat—juts out from it on a slight diagonal, as if it has been pushed into the roof from above and allowed to melt before setting firm. The roof rests atop four golden-brown walls, decorated and grooved to look like wafer biscuits. Peering through the windows, we can see tables shaped like candy canes adjacent to a smooth, wooden benchtop, upon which four sliding glass cabinets rest.

Cup and I look at the fully laden wagon we have pulled up the mountain from Ponyville, then over the edge of the cliffside where the small town is still visible. Before either of us can say a word about our former home, a flash of light and a whirring sound catch our attention. I see a pair of hooves cover my eyes while I hear some high-pitched giggles, and I realise that Pound and Pumpkin have left the wagon to give us cuddles.

Cup and I join in laughing with our foals as we each bear the light weight of a son and daughter respectively. They sit atop our heads and chortle to each other for a moment, then gaze up at the sweet looking premises before them. Their brown and blue eyes widen while droplets of saliva fall from their tongues. A second later, our son and daughter both clop their hooves together and shriek loud enough to draw the attention of some passers-by.

“Looks like they like it, Cup,” I say.

“I was hoping they would, Carrot. It almost broke my heart to see their little faces as we left Sugarcube Corner in Pinkie Pie’s hooves.” Cup stares wistfully into the distance again while Pound flitters down onto her back with a yawn. “Do you think she can handle running the shop?”

I roll my eyes, but still I smile at those gorgeous pink eyes. “For the last time, Cup, we can trust Pinkie. I mean, she practically ran the shop by herself anyway. All we did was cook and occasionally help out when it got busy as it was. And you know she has an affinity with the customers.”

“I suppose you’re right…” Cup turns away from the southern view to face me. She wipes her face with a hoof, then looks again at the building. “Well, let’s get in there and start unpacking.”

“Yes,” I say. “Let’s enter… our new home.”

We stroll through the saloon-style doors and look around at the interior. The walls have been painted a beautiful shade of white and red to compliment the ten tables. Four small seats—each a creamy white with brown spots, shaped like a vanilla choc-chip muffin—surround each table. I sit at one and run a hoof along the top; I am met by the cool slickness of a granite surface. The seat is plush beneath my flank, yet firm enough so I do not sink into it and remain at perfect eating height. Two doors marked Fillies and Colts sit in the corner.

While Cup drags the little ones off into our new kitchen to see our shiny new ovens, sinks and assorted cutlery, pots and pans, I set about carting a few of our possessions in from outside. Pound and Pumpkin have grown faster than we expected—I suspect Pinkie may have been a contributing factor there—and as such, I have two cots to set up now. I trot carefully up the stairs behind the counter as I mentally count each step: seven up to the first landing, then turn to the right and ascend seven more.

Fourteen. Just as I asked for.

I breathe a little easier.

I deposit the twin cots in the second room on the left. While the walls share the colour scheme of the main dining area, the ceiling has instead been adorned by bright white paint, splashed with spots of yellow. The smiling face of Princess Celestia grins down at me from above. I turn my head toward the inside wall next to the door and roll my right hoof down along a rotating cylinder. A new panel emerges from each corner of the ceiling to converge in the middle. This panel depicts the darkened night, complete with stars, a crescent moon, and the serene face of Princess Luna.

I return downstairs—still relishing the fourteen steps—and find Cup galumphing around the kitchen after Pound and Pumpkin, both running around the solid kitchen bench and cackling like Pinkie had just dumped a bag of flour on top of herself. I allow myself a small chuckle and return to the wagon, from which I retrieve a few portraits of our smiling family; more than one of them feature a photobomb courtesy of Pinkie, tongue out, goofy face, false moustache…

I carry the box atop my back and ascend to the first room on the left before the twins’. Beyond the yellow-and-blue door lies a lavishing princess-sized bed, accompanied by oaken cabinets, a tall swivel-mirror, and a bedside dressing table topped off with a small oil lamp. I set about placing the picture frames atop the dresser.

Something falls out from inside one of the frames.

With an eyebrow raised, I glance at the envelope. It is graced by curly hoofwriting that I do not recognise.

Carrot Cake

Sugarcube Corner, Ponyville, Equestria

I turn the envelope over. There is no return address.

Scratching my head, I purse my lips and slide the contents from within their encasing. What strikes me is that the letter appears to been opened before: there are jagged perforations along the top and the flap’s stick barely holds the envelope shut. I unfold the letter and begin to read.

Dear Carrot,

I drop the letter on the bed and flop down next to it. The continuing screams of joy—now accompanied by my wife’s—ring in my ears while I stare, dumbstruck, at this letter from the distant past. My hooves begin to tremble, yet I clench my teeth, close my eyes and steady myself before continuing.

Now I recognise the hoofwriting.

I look back at our relationship now and I cannot even tell if it was real. Was it all just a dream? Did all of that really happen? Was I really that happy once? Were you really that happy? All that time ago when magic could happen, and a filly met a colt who lived and breathed to bake, who was unlike any other she had ever met.

We were so very happy once. Do you remember that first week we spent together? I do—it was nothing less than magical. I can still remember how calm and complete you looked when we went to Horté Cuisine’s. You hadn’t even kissed me yet, but there you were: the happiest colt in the world. Now tell me… was it real?

My heart is hammering in my chest now. I blink hard as I will myself to read on.

I do not think I will ever find another stallion like you. When you looked at me with all that love in your eyes, I could see straight to your soul. You are so pure and full of light; I didn’t know how you did it! I don’t think I will ever find another stallion who loved me as much as you once did. You looked at me and saw the world, all packed into a neat little female box.

Despite my best efforts, the letter is shaking in my hooves. I have to take a deep breath as I feel the first drops of water escape my eyes, yet still I continue to read with slightly misty vision.

But the world knew the rest. I have no right in writing this to you, but who knows—you might not even receive it. I want you to move on and live your life, to find somepony who will look at you and see the world and want nothing else, only you, forever you. You are the shining knight in the pony tales, Carrot! But you fell in love with the wrong mare: the ugly stepsister rather than the beautiful princess who slumbers still, waiting for you to find her and release her from the dark magic that keeps her captive.

I have to pause there. I cannot read further. I inhale a deep breath while I do my best to ignore the stream now cascading down onto the brand new, fluffy, feathered quilt.

“Honey bun? Are you up there? Would you like some oven-christening apple-cinnamon cupcakes?”

I open my mouth to reply, yet after the first word spills out in a mess of choked-up phlegm, I swallow and try again.

“Yes please, sugar plum. That would be fantastic,” I call out with as steady a voice as I can muster.

“Okay, then. They’ll be ready in a few minutes. Do you need help setting anything up?”

Oh no. She can’t see me like this, with… this!

“I’m fine, dear. I’ll be down soon.”

I look back to the letter and pick it up once again. I have gotten this far; I may as well see it through.

You deserve the world, Carrot: nothing less. A stallion like you deserves every happiness the world can give, not the heartbreak and suffering I inflicted on you. For that, I am truly sorry, and I will always be sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. But if it’s any consolation, I got what I deserved. I was in an abusive relationship that almost killed me and nearly ripped my family apart. Karma tends to be a wicked witch. But I have learnt from my selfish actions and am beginning to heal. If only the price wasn’t so high. I wish it wasn’t so high for you. You did not deserve it.

Now, the point of this letter

I let go of the breath I had been unconsciously holding, take another and resume. The old memories have returned, the ones I thought buried long ago. Memories of love, of lust, of a wild passion and a dancing raspberry mane atop a slender body of palest yellow… accompanied by others of despair, agony, self-loathing…

I shudder and read on.

the point of this letter is to explain to you why you shouldn’t miss me. I ripped your heart out and crushed it. So do not miss me! Perhaps treasure the memories that we once shared—the love we shared. But remember, your princess is still out there, waiting for you and only you to be her world. So I wish you every happiness life can offer you.

Love, the lost (and wrong) princess.

My mind is reeling. How did I forget this existed? That she exists? That we once had something, long ago?

Through it all, my thoughts wander in a daze. Through the haze of emotions, sentences leap out at me.

Your princess is still out there, waiting for you…

You deserve the world, Carrot: nothing less…

Find somepony who will look at you and see the world and want nothing else, only you…

Forever you…

I bow my head and just sit there. The last of my tears fall. I sweep a hoof across my face, fold the letter up, return it to the envelope, trot over to the fireplace and place it under a prepared pile of willow logs. I spark up a flint using the envelope as easy ignition fuel and gaze out the window at the approaching twilight.

I leave the bedroom and close the door behind me. I follow the scent of cinnamon into the kitchen, flecks of drool confirming what my nose already knew. Pound and Pumpkin rush me together and leap up, giggling. Pound strains to beat his wings and remain level with my face as he boops my muzzle. Pumpkin whimpers at my hooves, and I lower my head so she can clamber on and join her brother.

With both twins holding onto my mane—Pumpkin teasing a few strands into her gaping maw—I lay eyes upon Cup. It has already been three years, and yet it feels like only a month ago that she cantered into my life. She grins at me, flutters her eyelashes, and pulls the fresh-baked muffins out of the oven. With the twins in tow, I march right up to her and kiss her full on the lips. To her great credit, she still keeps hold of the muffin tray as she opens up to me.

The cupcakes were scrumptious. The twins are in bed, their tiny snores creeping through a small hole in the wall next to their cots. The willow fire is flickering gently in the grate.

Cup sits in our bed on the dresser-side. She is reading some fancy new cookbook recommended to her by Fancy Pants.

“Carrot, dear, we have got to try making these evergreen pinecakes of Rye Strudel’s,” she says as she flicks through the middle pages. “The recipe is over seven hundred years old and always a hit at parties, apparently.”

“I’m sure we can try it out tomorrow, sugar plum,” I say as I climb into bed next to her. I place a kiss upon her forehead. “We have our whole new business and future together. Let’s make it whatever we want. You’ve earned it.”

“No, we’ve earned it,” Cup corrects me as she returns the kiss, places the book down and dims the light. “Our future starts tomorrow.”

“Yes it does, my Princess Cake.”

Cup emits my favourite squeal as she rubs into me. We lie on our backs and stare into each others’ eyes as we drape forelegs around each other and snuggle close.

My new life truly begins now. I’ve let you go. Thanks for the memories. Guess they really weren’t so bad.

Thank you. You were right… Roseluck.