The air in the shop was fragrant and warm, a stark comparison to the bitter cold and pungency of the alley outside. Rows of pretty tarts and manicured mini cakes lined the front window, glowing in the murky morning light and drawing wanderers towards the bakery. Rhonda worked behind the counter, hair pulled away from her face haphazardly, buzzing around the bakery. Her left arm was covered in bracelets, beads made of glass and plastic and clay and metal jingling against one another to create a unique melody that followed her everywhere. Rhonda greeted the customers swiftly, her sweet, mischievous voice complemented by the glint of wry wit that sparkled in her dark eyes.