Bun in the Oven

A fortnight ago I gave birth to eleven healthy, plump cinnamon buns (the twelfth was too small to survive gestation). Labor began Sunday and lasted a mere four hours; they all emerged from my oven simultaneously while the paterfamilias slumbered in the boudoir. As I gazed upon their white, powdery domes, I grew hungry—probably from the birthing process. I quickly slathered them in the sweet, warm liquid I had created while they developed, and then I took a bite out of the firstborn. I named him Hans, posthumously. Over the course of the next ten days, I devoured one per day while keeping the rest of the brood moist in a tin. The runt was the last to go. I now mourn their passing, but the loss is still too fresh for me to produce more baked goods.