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. "Well, you’re not using enough butter, for starters. And you’re probably overworking the dough. Patience is key—just like with everything else in this town." "Patience? In *Maplewood*? That’s a joke. Between Mrs. Henderson’s gossip and the way the mayor keeps changing the festival dates, I’m surprised anyone has time to breathe, let alone bake." The baker slid a still-warm apple turnover across the counter. "Here. Consider this a peace offering. And a reminder that sometimes the best things take time—even in a place where everyone’s in a hurry to get nowhere." A sigh. "You’re right. I just wish the rest of the town would slow down long enough to enjoy the little things. Like your pastries." "Then maybe you should start a club. *The Society for the Appreciation of Slow Living.* I’ll bring the snacks." The bell jingled again as the first woman laughed, the sound mingling with the hum of the oven. Outside, the wind carried the promise of more crisp days ahead.