Every morning at six, Mrs. Henderson would push open the door of “Maggie’s Bakery” with a faint jingle of the bell. At seventy-two, her back was slightly hunched, and her hands, gnarled by years of gardening, always clutched a worn wicker basket. For three years, she’d bought the same thing: a crusty sourdough loaf and a jar of raspberry jam. But one chilly November morning, her routine shifted.
That day, Maggie, the bakery’s owner, noticed Mrs. Henderson lingering by the display case longer than usual. When she finally approached the counter, her voice was small: “Just the jam today, dear. I… I forgot my purse.” Maggie smiled, sliding a sourdough loaf into the basket anyway. “Take it on the house. You can pay me tomorrow.” Mrs. Henderson protested, but Maggie shook her head. “My grandma
