The bell didn't ring when Arianne stepped in.
Someone had tied it off. String looped tight around the clapper so it wouldn't sound. The door pushed open easy, hinge loose the same as always.
She stopped just inside.
The smell hit before she could brace. Bread. Butter. Sugar. Apple and cinnamon underneath, baked too long at the edges on purpose.
Her stomach turned.
Not nausea. Something older. The smell reached back past all the years and grabbed her by the throat before her brain caught up.
She had known this was going to be hard. She had prepared for it the way she prepared for everything — by knowing in advance what it would cost, calculating the weight of it, deciding she could carry it before she walked in the door. She was very good at that.
She had been wrong about the smell.
