Myra
The air in Mount Tabor was crisp, but the sharp bite of February had finally softened into the first tentative promise of March. There was a faint smell of woodsmoke and boiling maple syrup in the air
I stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the fresh paint on the window frames. The gold lettering on the glass still read Dottie’s Place, established in 1976.
The exterior stairs had been replaced with sturdy, dark-stained timber that didn't creak, and the back of the building no longer smelled of ash. It smelled of hope, yeast, and the five dozen "Welcome Back" bear claws Tony had pulled from the oven at dawn.
"You ready, Higgins?"
Tony stepped out from the door, wiping his hands on a pristine white apron. He looked different—the heavy weight that had slumped his shoulders for years
