Emily sat back at the table as Olga placed a warm slice of pie in front of her. The smell alone made her smile—sweet, buttery crust with the unmistakable tartness of berries rising in the steam.
She took her first bite slowly, her lips parting in surprise the moment the taste spread across her tongue.
"Oh... oh, this is amazing," Emily whispered, eyes widening. "Is that raspberry?" She took another bite, barely waiting to finish chewing. "And blueberries too... it's perfect. Like... really, perfectly balanced."
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the flavors settle, the sweetness, the soft, crumbly crust, the slightly warm berries bursting with taste. It transported her briefly to a simpler memory—baking with her grandmother as a child, sunlight pouring through a kitchen window.
Across the room, Tom still stood at the door. He watched her, caught off guard by how genuine her reaction was. There was something oddly joyful in the way she spoke about pie, like it wasn't just dessert, but a moment of peace she rarely allowed herself.
"I need to take a piece home," Emily suddenly said, her eyes lighting up. "My daughter would love this. Would you mind wrapping a slice? She's 12, and she's always hunting for something sweet after school."
Tom, curious now, finally stepped into the kitchen. Without a word, he pulled out a chair and sat across from Emily, his quiet presence shifting the air just slightly. Olga smiled to herself, already slicing another piece of pie and sliding it onto a plate for him.
He took a bite, nodded approvingly, but remained silent, not out of rudeness, but perhaps out of habit. His eyes moved back to Emily, thoughtful.
Then, his voice broke the quiet.
"So... why exactly are you in my house?"
Emily blinked, her fork halfway to her mouth. She blushed, setting it down gently.
"Oh... right." She reached into her tote bag and pulled out the phone she had found earlier in the garden. She placed it carefully on the table between them. "I found this. In the grass, near the edge of the garden. It looked... well, brand new. No scratches, nothing. I thought maybe Tudor had dropped it."
Tom leaned forward, frowning slightly. He picked up the phone and turned it over in his hand. "This isn't my son's. He doesn't have a phone. He's four." He examined it again. "This model just came out last month. I'd remember if I bought one."
Emily nodded. "That's what I thought. It's too new to be just left there. Must've been someone passing by, or maybe a visitor. It's definitely expensive—whoever lost it might be looking all over for it."
Without hesitation, she pulled out her own phone, snapped a photo of the device on the kitchen table, and opened her social media app.
"'Found phone in garden near MC Street — probably recently dropped. Safe with homeowner. Please DM with model and screen lock pattern for proof,'" she read aloud as she typed. "There. Whoever lost it will find it here... where it was lost."
Tom gave a small nod. "Good thinking."
There was a pause, almost comfortable. Emily reached again for her pie, but then Tom asked abruptly, "So... your daughter. She's 12, right?" His tone was curious, not intrusive—but still, something in his question made Emily freeze.
"She is," Emily replied, cautious now.
"Is her father still... in the picture?"
Emily's smile faded. Her eyes dropped to the half-eaten pie. A flicker of discomfort crossed her face.
"I... sorry, could you wrap that piece to go?" she said, turning to Olga with a polite but firm smile. "I really should be heading home."
Olga glanced at her, catching the shift in tone. "Of course, dear. One second."
Tom didn't say another word. He looked down at the phone in his hands for a moment, then quietly stood and left the room, disappearing into a side hallway.
Emily exhaled softly. The air relaxed again.
Olga busied herself with finding foil and a small container. "You know," she said lightly, "Tudor and Dora would love a new friend. Maybe your daughter could join them sometime. We don't get many visitors around here."
Emily smiled, grateful for the soft pivot. "She's not really the little-kid type anymore... but maybe."
Olga chuckled. "Oh, they all say that at 12. But you'd be surprised how fast they go from eye-rolling teens to marshmallows when they meet little ones."
She was taking longer than expected to wrap the pie, chatting the whole time—a gentle strategy to slow Emily down just a bit more.
Finally, Emily stood, reaching for the small bundle of warm pie. "Thank you again. Really. For the company. And the pie — it's the best I've had in years."
Olga came forward and gave her a brief but heartfelt hug. "You're welcome anytime. Truly."
As Emily stepped toward the door, Olga added brightly, "Tomorrow I'll be baking cherry pie. Dora's favorite. Why don't you bring your daughter over? Let the kids play, and we can all sit outside. Maybe even have some lemonade."
Emily paused, halfway out the door. She didn't want to commit, but something in the warmth of the home, in Tudor's hug, in Dora's honesty, in the way the caretaker managed to keep things gently held together, made her nod.
"Alright," she said. "We'll stop by. Just for a bit."
Olga beamed. "Good. I'll keep a slice warm."
Emily smiled one last time, then stepped out into the late afternoon sun, the scent of pie still lingering in her hands — and something new in her chest: a strange, quiet hope.
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