Clover Carrington had thirty carrots and no place to bake them. He stood outside his cabin at dawn, sorting the vegetables into a basket on the step. His green fur caught the light, and his sparkly tail twitched as he counted. The carrot crown on his head had slipped sideways. He straightened it and frowned. For a year he had wanted one thing: a burrow-side bakery where the whole town of Ribbitmaw would gather over warm carrot bread. But you cannot sell treats you cannot make. He carried the basket inside. His cabin was small. Heart-shaped windows let in soft light, and a koi pond sat by the door, but there was no oven and no counter. The one table held his seed jars and a half-carved spoon. When he tried to picture rows of loaves cooling here, the picture broke apart. There simply was no room. Clover set down the basket and thought hard. He needed a workspace before he needed anything else. No workspace meant no bread. No bread meant no bakery, and no bakery meant no gathering spot. The problem sat at the front of every other problem. He walked to the farmstand where he bought his ingredients. It was a cottage-style stall with flower boxes and baskets of apples and greens. He had come for more carrots. Instead he stared at the wide plank counter and the deep shelves under the awning. The stall had space he did not. The old vendor watched him stare. "You want vegetables or you want to buy my porch?" she said. Clover did not smile. "I want to rent your counter," he said. "An hour each morning. Before you open. I will bake here and sell beside your stand." She wiped her hands on her apron. "And what do I get?" "Half of everything I bake for the first month," Clover said. "Your customers smell fresh bread. They stay longer. They buy more apples." The vendor squinted at him. She tapped the counter twice, thinking. Then she pulled a small key from her apron and pressed it into his paw. "Mornings only," she said. "Leave it cleaner than you found it. And bring your own oven, because mine burns everything." Clover closed his paw around the key. His plan had worked. He had a place to bake at last. But he had promised half his bread to a stranger, agreed to sell beside her stand, and now he owned nothing but a key and thirty carrots. He had no oven. He had no idea what the vendor would think when townsfolk chose his bread over her apples. Clover looked at the empty counter and understood the truth. The hard part had only started.

Clover reached the farmstand before sunrise. He carried his key and his thirty carrots, but the empty counter still mocked him. He had a place to bake and nothing to bake with. The vendor's own oven burned everything. He needed his own, and he had no coins to buy one. He set down his basket and stared at the flower boxes, thinking hard. Then the vines above the counter moved. A cascade of purple blooms hung from the awning, and among the flowers dangled fat orange carrots. Clover had never seen it there before. Two bunnies stepped from behind the baskets, dressed like royalty. Their fur carried soft heart patterns, and small crowns sat between their long ears. They watched him with shimmering eyes. "You want to bake," said the brown-eyed one. "But you have no oven." "And no coins," added the blue-eyed one, tilting her head. Clover kept his face still. Strangers rarely offered help without a price. "That is my trouble," he said. "Not yours." The two bunnies looked at each other. Then they parted, revealing an oven behind them. It shone deep green, like polished emerald, with a small door and a warm glow inside. No smoke, no soot. Clover stepped closer and felt gentle heat. "It never burns," the brown-eyed bunny said. "It bakes true, every time." "And the vines feed you," the blue-eyed bunny said. She pulled a carrot from the wisteria. A new one grew back at once, right before Clover's eyes. "Pick as many as you like. They never run out." Clover touched a hanging carrot. It came free in his paw, and another swelled to replace it. His thirty carrots suddenly meant nothing. He had endless carrots and an oven that could not fail. He should have felt joy. Instead he grew wary. "Why give me this?" he asked. The royal bunnies only smiled and stepped back into the shadows behind the baskets. They did not answer. When Clover blinked, they were gone. The oven remained. The vines remained, heavy with fruit. He did not waste the morning. He mixed batter, grated carrots, and slid a tray into the green oven. The loaves rose golden and even. The crust cracked just right. He pulled out a dozen perfect loaves before the vendor arrived, and the smell filled the whole stand. But as he cooled them on the counter, worry crept in. He had promised the vendor half his bread. Now he could bake endless loaves from endless carrots, faster than she could sell a single apple. His bread would bury her stand. She had warned him about competing with her fruit, and soon the whole town would smell his baking and ignore her baskets. Clover looked at the rows of loaves and understood. His gift had solved one problem and handed him a far larger one. The vendor would not stay quiet for long.