The bell above the door jingled, and the scent of cinnamon and warm bread curled into the autumn air. "You're in early. Oven giving you trouble again?" "No, just couldn’t sleep. Kept dreaming about Mrs. Callahan’s rhubarb pie turning purple at the county fair. Like it was plotting something." "Maybe it finally snapped after years of being judged beside Doris’s ‘secret recipe’ jam." "That jam’s just fruit cocktail and regret. But seriously, have you seen the ribbon they gave my sourdough? Third place. Third. People don’t appreciate crust with character." "Yours looked like it could defend itself." "Exactly! It had presence. Meanwhile, Doris wins with that gummy pink sludge again. I tell you, someone’s fixing those results." "Did you taste it this year?" "Tasted? I held a séance. The spoon nearly floated away." A customer stepped up, eyeing the scones. The baker straightened, flour dusting her apron like snow. "Tell you what—try the lavender shortbread. Made it fresh this morning. No suspicious ingredients, I swear. Unless you count the bit of drama I kneaded in." "You put emotion in your pastries? Is that why the croissants always sigh when I bite into them?" "Only the ones that know the truth about the fair."