So yeah, full circle.
When I pass Lorelai’s bakery, the smell of fresh muffins and cinnamon hooks into my nose and pulls me toward the entrance like a cartoon character floating on scent.
I haven’t been inside since Lorelai passed away. Her triplet daughters—June, Cora, and Riley—took over right after her funeral. They kept the name, though. Out of respect, I guess.
The place still looks the same: worn teal booths, mismatched tableware, chalkboard specials hanging behind the counter in curly handwriting.
June is at the register and breaks into a grin when she sees me. “Wren! Holy shit, is that really you?”
“In the flesh.” I smile back. “And very much in need of coffee.”
She laughs and waves Cora over to get my order—a large iced latte with oat milk and two lemon poppyseed muffins. Riley pops her head out from the kitchen with a flour-smudged face, squinting like she can’t quite believe it.
“We heard about the fire,” June says as I pay. “Are you okay?”
“Grand,” I reply breezily, tucking the change into the tip jar. “Just slightly flammable, apparently.”
Riley snorts behind the counter.
They sent me off with a muffin bag, a cup of coffee so large it requires two hands, and a free cinnamon roll I hadn’t asked for. I wave goodbye and step back into the street, heart a little lighter.
That’s the thing about this town. You can hate it one minute, and the next, it hands you warm pastries and remembers your name.
Miss Thea’s apothecary sits a few doors down, tucked between the second-hand bookstore and the candle shop with the bell that always rings twice, even when nobody opens the door.
Miss Thea is… well, no one really knows her age. Some say she was born when the town was founded. Others joke she was summoned out of a forest, a full-grown witch with her hair already silver.
All I know is that she’s always been here. Always will be.
The place smells like cloves, citrus, and lavender, the scent so strong that it clings to my dress even after I leave. Miss Thea emerges from the back like she’s been waiting for me.
“Trouble finds you quick, child,” she says, not unkindly.
I shrug, scanning the shelves. “It’s got good aim.”
She hands me a new vial of scent balm—bergamot and mint this time—and I tuck it into my bag with a quiet thank-you.
She doesn’t ask questions. Never does. Just nods once, like she knows more than she should, and turns back to her mortar and pestle.
I step outside, adjusting the muffin bag in one hand, and promptly run into someone rounding the corner.
“Oh!”
“Oh my god, Wren?”
Norah Knightly. Until now, our conversations have mainly consisted of sending memes back and forth, with the occasional FaceTime, such as the one a couple of months ago when I calledto wish her a happy birthday and mentioned I might be coming into town this fall to check on my mother.
She’s a little taller than I remember, though maybe that’s just confidence carrying her higher. The auburn curls are unchanged—wild, shoulder-length, only half-surrendered to the pink scarf she’s knotted on top.
Her green eyes are as warm as ever, her skin glowing in that effortless way only Norah seems to manage. A soft, grounding perfume follows her—roses, eucalyptus, and the faintest trace of earth.
She breaks into a grin. “I thought you weren’t coming until September!”
“I wasn’t,” I say. “Plans… changed.”
“I’ll say. I just got back into town today and heard about the fire—are you okay?”
“I’m good. Frazzled. Slightly scorched. But alive.”
