The bell above the door chimed softly as the door swung open. Cold air rushed in, making the warmth of the bakery feel even cozier by contrast. "You're late." "Am I? I thought I told you ten." "It's half past already." "Oh, right. Time flies when you're buried in flour." There was a pause as the sound of footsteps moved across the wooden floor, mingling with the smell of freshly baked bread. "So, did you hear about the new arrival in town?" "You mean that fancy lawyer from the city?" "Yeah. Came down last week, bought the old Chandler place." "Heard he's looking to set up a practice here. Can you believe it? A lawyer in Willow Creek? Next, they'll be telling us we need a stoplight." "Don't laugh. Stranger things have happened." "True. Speaking of which, did you ever find out who took those apricot tarts last week?" "You won't believe it. Turned out to be Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s cat. Knocked the whole tray off the counter and ate them." "A cat? Well, that's a new one." The sound of laughter filled the air, a warm contrast to the brisk wind outside. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla lingered as the conversation drifted to more mundane topics: the weather, the upcoming fall festival, and the price of flour.