The air was filled with the warm, sweet scent of maple and cinnamon as the door of "Sweet Dough" chime marked the entrance of a new customer. The baker, a round woman with flour on her apron, paused her flurry of activity, her hands resting on the cool countertop. "Usually, it's the cream puff that lights up her face, but not so much today," she thought, trying to stir up that familiar affection. In walked a middle-aged woman, her eyes subtly scanning the crowded bakery. "Thank you," the woman murmured, her voice sounding different, carrying a hint of urgency as she glanced towards the counter, where a lone cream puff awaited—the usual suspect. Her gaze lifted to the baker, yet her lips curved, practiced librarian-like contentment. "Good morning...I was wondering if the roses on your window sill noticed the time change?" The baker, acutely aware of the woman's deeper narrative, offered a tray of pastries. One glance was all the assurance it took. The woman nodded, accepting the pastry and with a gracious smile, slipped her coat over the armchair, the weight of it a metaphor for her many thoughts. Now, with a nourishing break had been initiated, not just for the body, but perhaps, for the soul as well. "Enjoy your day," she said softly, her voice barely more than the rustle of pages. The baker, with a nod, turned back to her oven, pondering the enigma wrapped in customerly charade—her own personal cozy mystery.