My Perfect Vanilla (Part 1)

Arrival

“Look at this room,” I whispered to myself—more a thought than actual words as I absorbed the room I found myself in.

The colors were the first thing I noticed. They were vivid and varied, yet somehow unfamiliar. I couldn’t recall ever seeing colors quite like these before. In that moment, my memory of color felt oddly faded, as though these new shades had replaced what I knew with richer, deeper, brighter, and somehow truer hues than anything I had ever known.

They blended flawlessly, although unusual. Beautiful bright yet soft tones. Colors with no name. As an artist, I thought I understood color, but this room was painted with a palette emanating from a different kind of light.

And then something shifted.

The colors didn’t just adorn on the walls, they breathed. They floated and dissolved into the air, tinting the atmosphere with a light I could feel softly against my skin. It was as if color itself had become a warm, comforting breeze. I felt I was inside a vanilla cloud, or how I imagined one might feel: warm and cozy, airy and soft.

As I settled into the sensation, a powdery puff of air brushed against my cheek and gently pulled my gaze toward a window I hadn’t noticed before.

Outside, sunlight poured down in golden, honeyed streams that erased every shadow. Its rays melted away all hardship and all fear. At that moment, I felt entirely at peace.

Doorway

I instinctively closed my eyes, letting the calm of the place drift through me. Then came the scent of rich bakery dough mingled with vanilla sugar, nutmeg, and a trace of cinnamon. It was so intoxicating that I became lightheaded and momentarily lost my footing.

When I opened my eyes to steady myself, I saw her. A woman was entering through an enchanted doorway. A misty portal that arrived out of the same magical colors and soft emotions that this place exuded.

She moved fluidly like music into view. I blinked, and her form adjusted: a playful child, an ageless woman, a luminous elder. She met my gaze briefly, then turned toward an oven I hadn’t seen before. One that must have arrived with her. The space had transformed into a warm and inviting kitchen, blending rustic textures with vibrant, dreamlike color.

She held out a pair of potholders and asked, “What do you think is baking in there?” Her voice was quiet but expectant. I drew in the scent again: sweet vanilla, a whisper of nutmeg, and a trace of cinnamon—familiar, yet elevated.

“They smell like vanilla sugar cookies,” I replied, opening the oven door. Inside was a tray of the most mouth-watering confections I’d ever seen. Yes, they were cookies, but unlike any I had ever known.

“They’re best warm,” she said. “Could you place them on that plate and bring them to the table?” I nodded.

Cookies

I placed the cookies in the center of the table, then added two small plates. She brought the teapot, cups, and sugar, and we sat down together.

As she poured my tea, she said, “Well, dig in.”

I picked up the closest cookie and took a bite. Warm and delicately sweet, it crumbled in my mouth, releasing a rich vanilla flavor with delicious hints of cinnamon and nutmeg unfolding gently on my tongue. It was the most delectable cookie I had ever tasted.

“These cookies…” I held up a remnant, at a loss for the right words to express their unearthly goodness—there were no words.

Just then, she smiled, reached out her hand, and interjected, “My name is Liriel.” I met her hand with mine; but before I could offer my own name, she continued, “Welcome, Deana. You’ve been invited here to explore your purpose, and I’m here to guide you. But before we get started, you must have a million questions.” Oddly, I had none. No pressing questions. No urgent curiosity.

This place, with its otherworldly colors, scents, and tastes, should have overwhelmed me. But it didn’t. Everything felt exactly as it should. I didn’t yet know where I was, but I felt I belonged. And for the first time in recent memory, I was content to simply sit, sip tea, and savor cookies.

Music

“Now, about your purpose,” Liriel said, her voice floating like a melody through the gentle steam rising from our cups. “You may believe your purpose is about doing, achieving, and proving. But that’s not it.”

She paused, allowing her words to penetrate my senses as they mingled with color and scent.

Then she transitioned. “What do you think of this place?” she asked. “It’s… remarkable,” I said. “It’s comforting in a way that lingers. Not like the world I came from." but my words couldn't capture the essence of my experience.

She nodded a knowing smile and continued. “And yet even this place, despite the perfect comfort it offers, is not the destination. You’ll return here again and again, not to this place, but to what it awakens in you. The remembering will guide you.”

I looked at her, unsure. “What do you mean?”

She lifted her hand and gestured toward the honeyed golden light, the otherworldly hues, and the warmth that blended effortlessly into every corner of the room. “This,” she said, “is the essence of warmth and belonging. The kind of softness that disappears far too easily in the world you’ve come from. But you’re not here to stay. You’re here to remember.”

Then she reached for my hand again and held it with a comfort so gentle, it moved through me like clouds drifting through a dream.

“You’ll return to your world to build a life from this memory—a life that carries the spirit of this place. Along the way, you’ll meet everyone meant to walk with you. That is your purpose. Not to escape the world, but to infuse it.”

And then the music deepened—not music made by instruments, but somehow by the air itself.

A sound like memory.

A sound strangely like vanilla.