"Morning, sunshine. The usual?" "Yes, please. And a dozen of those cinnamon rolls for the book club." "You're a saint, you know that? Those ladies would riot without your pastries." "Well, we can't have that, can we?" The bell above the door jingled, announcing a new customer. The aroma of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries wafted through the air, mingling with the soft hum of the old coffee machine. "Morning, ladies. What's the gossip today?" "Well, have you heard about old Mrs. Jenkins?" "No, what about her?" "She swears she saw a ghost last night. In her garden, of all places." "A ghost? Really?" "That's what she says. Poor thing was shaking like a leaf when she told me." "Probably just a stray cat or something. Her eyes aren't what they used to be." "Maybe. But she was adamant it was a ghost. Even described it - tall, thin, wearing a hat." "Sounds like Mr. Thompson to me. He does like his late-night walks." "You might be right. But it's not like him to wander into other people's gardens." "True. Well, I'll leave you to ponder the mystery. Here are your pastries, and a little extra for the ghost hunters." "You're too kind. See you tomorrow."