A gentle knock echoed through the half-empty café space as Sarah stood on a chair, dusting off an old light fixture. She paused, squinting toward the door. The morning sun filtered in, catching specks of dust that danced like memories in the air.
Another knock—this time followed by a familiar voice. "Anyone home?"
Sarah climbed down and opened the door.
A petite woman stood there with silver-streaked hair tied into a bun, a woven basket in her hands and a wide smile across her face.
"Well, I'll be," the woman said, eyes widening. "Little Sarah Whitmore?"
Sarah blinked, and then a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Mrs. Harper?"
Mrs. Harper nodded, stepping inside without hesitation. "I'd recognize that face anywhere. Last time I saw you, you were about this tall—" she held her hand at waist level—"helping me carry groceries and stealing my peaches."
Sarah laughed, her heart warming with the memory. "I only took the bruised ones."
"Uh-huh, and the best ones just happened to be bruised," Mrs. Harper teased. She looked around the room. "You fixing this place up?"
Sarah nodded. "Turning it into a café."
Mrs. Harper's eyes sparkled. "Just like your mama always dreamed of. She'd be proud."
They stood there for a beat, silence settling between them like an old quilt—worn but comforting.
"I brought muffins," Mrs. Harper said, lifting the basket. "Figured you and your boy could use something homemade."
Sarah took it gratefully. "Thank you. You didn't have to."
Mrs. Harper waved her off. "Nonsense. Rosehill takes care of its own."