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In a small yellow house at the end of a winding gravel road lived an old woman and an old man.
Their house lay between fields and a small forest, and in the morning you could hear roosters crow, cows chew and the wind rustle gently in the leaves of the trees. From the kitchen there was almost always the smell of something good.
The old woman loved to bake.
She baked bread, rolls, cookies and pies. But this morning she had a special idea.
“I think,” she said, tying her apron, “that I will bake something fun today.”
“As long as I get to taste,” the old man mumbled behind his newspaper.
She mixed dough with honey, sugar, cinnamon and ginger. The whole kitchen filled with a warm, spiced scent that made even the cat sneak closer to the oven.
Then she shaped the dough.
Two arms.
Two legs.
A round head.
She pressed raisins in as eyes and made a small smiling mouth.
“Look at you,” she said softly. “You look like a little man.”
She put the tray in the oven.
Soon the dough began to rise. It smelled sweet and golden. And as the heat spread, something very strange happened.
The little gingerbread man blinked.
Then he moved a finger.
Then a leg.
“Oh!” he said quietly. “Where am I?”
When the oven door was opened, he suddenly jumped up.
“Fresh air!” he shouted.
And before the old woman could say “oh”, he jumped out of the oven, across the table and straight out through the door.
“Wait!” she shouted. “You’re breakfast!”
But the gingerbread man laughed and ran.
His little legs stomped quickly against the gravel road, and crumbs scattered behind him.
“Run, run, as fast as I can!
You’ll never catch me, for I am the gingerbread man!”
He thought it was very funny.
Everything was new.
The grass tickled his feet. The sun was warm on his face. The birds sang.
He felt light as the wind.
Down by the field he met a cow.
“Moo,” said the cow, licking its lips. “You smell delicious.”
“That may be,” said the gingerbread man cheekily, “but you’ll never catch me!”
And then he ran again.
He ran past a horse.
Past some chickens.
Past a dog.
Everyone thought he smelled wonderful.
Everyone wanted to taste.
And each time he shouted laughing:
“Run, run, as fast as I can!
You’ll never catch me, for I am the gingerbread man!”
But gradually his legs grew heavy.
He had been running all day.
The sun was lower now, and the shadows grew long.
“Hmm,” he muttered. “It was fun before… but now I’m a little tired.”
Suddenly he missed something.
Something warm.
Something safe.
He missed… the kitchen.
The smell of baking.
The old woman’s calm voice.
The sound of coffee cups.
He slowed down.
“I wonder if they were actually angry,” he thought.
“I did jump out without saying goodbye.”
Just as he stood thinking, he heard a soft voice behind him.
“Good evening, little friend.”
It was a fox.
It had shiny fur and narrow, clever eyes.
“You look tired,” the fox said kindly.
“I am,” sighed the gingerbread man.
“And fragrant,” the fox added.
“Uh… thanks?”
“Shall I help you across the stream? Then you can rest on the other side.”
The gingerbread man looked at the water. It bubbled quietly.
But then he suddenly remembered all the others.
The cow.
The dog.
The chickens.
Everyone who had looked at him like food.
He looked at the fox’s teeth.
They were quite sharp.
“You know what,” he said slowly. “I think I’ll find my own way.”
The fox smiled a little too widely.
“As you wish.”
And then it disappeared between the trees.
The gingerbread man stood still for a moment.
His heart beat.
“I think… I want to go home,” he said.
He walked more slowly now.
Not running.
Just small steps.
The evening air was cool. The stars began to appear.
When he reached the small yellow house, there was still light from the kitchen window.
He could hear voices.
The old woman sighed.
“It was the finest gingerbread man I’ve ever baked.”
“Yes,” said the old man. “He looked kind.”
The gingerbread man felt a lump in his stomach.
He knocked gently on the door.
Knock knock.
The door opened.
The old woman gasped.
“But… it’s you!”
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “I just wanted to see the world. But I missed you.”
The old woman smiled warmly.
“Then you’d better come inside again. You must be cold.”
She wrapped him in a small dish towel and placed him on the table.
Not to eat him.
Just to take care of him.
The old man placed a cup of tea beside him.
“You can live here,” he said. “As our little kitchen friend.”
And that is how it became.
From that day the gingerbread man stood on the shelf above the stove.
He helped keep an eye on the cookies.
He told stories about the fields and the forest.
And sometimes, when no one was looking, he jumped down and danced a little dance on the table.
But every evening, when the sun went down, he sat quietly and enjoyed the warmth.
Because now he knew something important.
It was fun to run out into the world.
But the very best place…
was where someone was waiting for you.
And out in the kitchen there was always a faint smell of honey and cinnamon.
