The kitchen smelled like cinnamon, sugar, and something almost sacred, warmth that felt earned.
Snow still battered the world beyond the cabin walls, but inside, the air buzzed with life. The old wooden table had been cleared and dusted with flour, bowls lined neatly in a row, cookie cutters scattered like playful casualties of anticipation. The oven hummed steadily, a soft, reassuring sound that filled the room with promise.
Daisy stood on a chair pulled close to the counter, sleeves rolled far past her elbows, cheeks dusted with flour like war paint. She took her role very seriously.
“Okay,” she announced, hands on her hips, “gingerbread men first. Then stars. Then the hearts.”
Michelle smiled despite herself. “There’s an order now?”
“Yes,” Daisy said solemnly. “Christmas baking has
