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The sugar glaze glistened as he brushed it over each one, his sleeves rolled up, the smell of vanilla wrapping around him like a quiet joy.
The sound of the rain outside mingled with the low hum of the oven and the clink of pans cooling on the rack. Somewhere in the background, an old record played softly, a tune Lena once danced to in that very kitchen, barefoot and laughing.
Mrs. Alden glanced at the cookies, smiling to herself. “Add a little more glaze,” she said gently, her voice rich and warm. “People like them shiny this time of year.”
Adrian chuckled, brushing another coat on the cookies. “You sound just like her,” he said.
Bab Populer