The new sanatorium had a beautiful backyard. The gardeners at a luxury hotel in the best part of New York did not disappoint. Shrubs and flowers layered over one another, while sycamores, beeches, and all sorts of broadleaf trees cast dense shade. What Schiller liked most was the porch outside the back door, its pillars and ceiling covered in the same red roses as the backyard wall. Sunlight filtered through gaps between leaves and petals, and from the porch, he could see the plants in the garden competing in splendor, reminding him of a summer in the European countryside from one of Monet's paintings.
As the temperature dropped in the evening, Schiller moved a lounge chair to the right side of the porch and sat down. After hearing several "thump, thump, thump" notifications, he checked his phone and found that he had nearly been removed from every group chat.
He sighed. Peter happened to open the kitchen window and stick his head out. "Doctor, why isn't the oven powered on? I finally finished mixing the flour. The hot Raspberry Pie will be out soon."
"There's a switch behind the refrigerator," Schiller said. "It should work once you turn it on. But I must remind you that you've already failed four times. I can confirm that the sanatorium's trash cans will not play the vinyl records you throw into them. Watch the heat this time, all right?"
Peter let out a dejected wail. "I clearly followed the recipe my aunt gave me..."
"Really? Then what about the extra two hundred grams of sugar?"
"I thought it would taste better if it were sweeter."
"The berry jam?"
"To add flavor."
"The banana puree?"
"A short video I saw."
"And the watermelon juice?"
"I heard it makes the dough softer."
"I have to