October 9, Wednesday

THE KITCHEN was alive with the comforting aroma of yeast and flour. Sunlight streamed through the window, catching dust motes that danced in the air like fairy dust. Kelly stood at the counter, her hands covered in a fine dusting of flour as she kneaded a mound of sticky dough.

"Now, you want to fold it over like this," Kelly instructed, demonstrating the motion. "Then give it a quarter turn and repeat."

I mimicked her movements, marveling at the way the dough transformed under my hands from a shaggy mess into a smooth, elastic ball. The repetitive motion was oddly soothing, a welcome distraction from the chaos of the past few days.

Kelly's crystal necklaces clinked softly as she worked, the colorful stones catching the light. "How's that feeling?" she asked, nodding at my dough.

"Like a stress ball," I admitted.

Kelly's laugh was warm and rich. "That's the idea. Breadmaking is as much therapy as it is cooking."

As we worked, the kitchen filled with the earthy scent of fermentation from the sourdough starter bubbling away in its mason jar. The gentle pop of air bubbles escaping the mixture provided a soft counterpoint to the rhythmic slap of dough against the wooden counter.

"So," Kelly said, her tone casual, "any news on the, um, empty grave situation?"

I paused mid-knead, my hands sinking into the soft dough. "Not really. The police are still investigating, but..." I trailed off, unsure how much to reveal.

Kelly nodded, her expression sympathetic. "It's just so bizarre, isn't it? I mean, who steals a body?"

"I know, right?"

We lapsed into silence, broken only by the soft squelch of dough and the distant crow of the rooster. As I worked, I found my mind wandering to Sawyer, to the tension that had been building between us.

"Kelly," I ventured, trying to keep my tone light, "what do you know about Sawyer? I mean, has he always lived here?"

Kelly's hands stilled for a moment. "Sawyer? Oh, he's been around for as long as I can remember. Keeps to himself mostly, but he's always willing to lend a hand when needed."

"And has he always been so..." I searched for the right word, "...solitary?"

A knowing smile played on Kelly's lips. "You mean, has he always been single?"

I felt my cheeks flush. "I'm just curious."

"Uh-huh," Kelly teased, her eyes twinkling. "Well, if you must know, you're the first person I've seen turn Sawyer's head in a long time."

"Oh," I said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. "I'm sure that's not true."

Kelly shrugged, turning to check the starter. "Believe what you want, but I know what I've seen. That man looks at you like you're the sun coming out after a long storm."

I didn't know how to respond to that, so I focused on my dough, punching it down perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary.

"Alright," Kelly said, clapping her floury hands together. "Let's get these loaves shaped and into the proofing baskets."

As we worked, the kitchen filled with the promise of fresh bread, creating a homey atmosphere that made the Whisper House feel less like a temporary residence and more like... home.

Once the loaves were nestled in their baskets, covered with soft cloths, Kelly dusted off her hands. "Now we wait. In about four hours, we'll have the most delicious bread you've ever tasted."

I smiled, genuinely excited. "I can't wait."

As Kelly cleaned up, her anti-evil crystals catching the light, I found myself reflecting on the simple joy of learning this old-world skill. For a moment, the mysteries of Irving faded into the background.

But as my gaze drifted to the window, in the direction of the Whisper Graveyard beyond, I knew the respite was only temporary.

For now, though, I was content to let the bread rise and pretend, just for a little while, that everything was normal.