The bell above the door jingled as a gust of autumn wind swept in, scattering a few golden leaves across the checkerboard floor. The scent of cinnamon and warm bread wrapped around the two women like a cozy blanket. "Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. Every time I try to bake a pie crust, it comes out like cardboard." A soft chuckle came from behind the counter. "You’re not using enough butter. And you’re overworking the dough. It’s all in the touch—gentle, like you’re tucking a baby into bed." "Well, my babies are all grown, and they still complain about my cooking." The first woman sighed, leaning against the glass display case. "Maybe I should just stick to buying yours. Your apple turnovers are legendary." "Flattery will get you a free sample." A small plate slid across the counter, a golden pastry dusted with sugar resting on it. "But seriously, come by my class next week. I’ll teach you the secret." The door chimed again, and a hush fell over the bakery as the mayor stepped inside, his polished shoes clicking against the tiles. The two women exchanged a glance—something was about to happen.