The bell above the door jingled softly as the morning light spilled into the bakery, casting golden patches across the worn wooden floor. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with cinnamon, wrapping the room in warmth. “I swear, if the cinnamon rolls weren’t enough to fatten me up, your stories would do it too.” “Hey, I’m just trying to keep things interesting around here. You know how quiet Maplewood gets this time of year.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I like quiet.” “Sure, until someone leaves a trail of flour all over your counter and blames it on the ghosts.” “You’re imagining things again. Last time, it was probably just curious Mrs. Whitaker.” “Or that sneaky neighborhood cat that always looks like it’s plotting something.” The laughter was cut short by the sudden clatter of a dropped tray from the back room. “Maybe the cat’s gotten braver.” “Or worse. More determined.” “Either way, I’ll grab a fresh batch of scones. Something tells me this morning is going to get a little more complicated than quiet.”