The warm scent of cinnamon and melting butter hung in the air, a comforting cloud against the morning chill. Flour dusted the marble countertop like a fresh coat of snow as the little bell over the door chimed. “Did you hear about Mr. Abernathy?” “The whole town has. Awful business.” A metal spatula scraped gently against a baking sheet, lifting a perfectly browned croissant. “They’re saying it was his heart. Just… gave out.” “His heart never stopped him from his standing Friday order. A dozen lemon tarts, regular as clockwork.” “But that’s the odd part, isn’t it? He was in here yesterday. A Thursday.” “He was.” “And he bought…?” “A single plain scone. And a black coffee. Said he was turning over a new leaf.” “A plain scone? Harold Abernathy? The man who considered my raspberry jam a ‘dietary staple’?” “My thoughts exactly. Paid with exact change and didn’t even want a bag.” “Turning over a new leaf? The only leaf Harold ever turned was the one in his tea. It’s just not right.” The spatula paused over the tray of croissants, glinting in the morning light. "No. It certainly isn't."