The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the tang of cinnamon and the faintest hint of something floral, almost like a secret. “This is the best sourdough in the county,” a voice said, clearly a regular. “Never fails to make me feel like a kid again.” A chuckle followed. “No one makes a loaf like yours, Agnes.” “Oh, stop it, you,” Agnes replied, her voice as warm as the oven behind her. “You just say that because you’re a sucker for my raisin bread, which is clearly the real star.” The voice, now closer, chuckled again, a deep rumble. “You know me too well, Agnes, you do.” “Well, I haven’t missed a week in twenty years,” Agnes said, leaning against the countertop. “You can’t fool an old baker.” A pause. “What’s the news then, William? Anything exciting happening in Oakhaven these days?”