Into The Unknown

The Beginning

September 5, 2000

Figisburg, Texas

Population: 200

The bakery's windows glowed with a soft, amber light, fogged slightly from the humid warmth radiating within. Outside, the morning air was crisp for a September in Texas, the kind of cool that felt borrowed—unlikely to last past noon. Still, the scent of cinnamon, toasted pecans, and rising dough drifted onto the street, curling around the ankles of early risers like a gentle invitation.

A chalkboard sign stood proudly on the sidewalk, lettered in Scarlett White's cheerful, looping script:

Pumpkin tarts are back! Come taste fall.

The scent of those cinnamon rolls and fresh sourdough clung to Scarlett like a second skin. It was a perfume she wore proudly. By 5:30 a.m., she was already elbow-deep in flour, humming under her breath while the mixer thumped in steady rhythm beside her. Her long blonde hair was twisted into a loose braid that trailed down her back, secured with a small silver clip engraved with a tiny rose—her mother's clip. It caught the oven light when she moved, flashing briefly like a wink from the past.

The bakery, Mae's, had been in her family for three generations. Nestled comfortably between the post office and the barber shop on Main Street, its brick façade had been weathered by decades of sun and dust storms. The sign above the door—hand-painted in fading gold leaf—read simply: Mae's Bakery & Café.

Inside, the floorboards didn't just creak; they spoke. They sighed beneath heavy boots and groaned under shifting racks of bread. Scarlett had grown up listening to those sounds. She knew which board would complain if Sheriff Tomlin planted his heel too firmly and which one would sing faintly when the ovens were holding steady at exactly three hundred and fifty degrees. The place was alive in ways she couldn't quite explain. It had a pulse, a memory.

Figisburg was the kind of town where time moved slower, as if the entire place had agreed to stretch each afternoon into honey-thick gold. With a population of exactly two hundred souls—Scarlett had counted, more than once—it was a place where neighbors waved from porches and knew your business before you did. Everyone owned at least one pickup truck, one lawn chair, and one story they swore was true.

Scarlett had lived here her whole life. She knew every face, every stray dog, every engine by its rattle and cough. And they knew her—Scarlett with the ice-blue eyes and the warmest smile in the county.

By 6:15 a.m., the bell above the door jingled for the first time, bright and silver as a spoon against porcelain.

"Morning, darlin'," came the gravelly voice of Sheriff Tomlin.

He moved with a heavy, rhythmic gait, his Stetson already dusted with dirt as if he'd been awake for hours. He leaned his forearms on the counter, the leather of his belt creaking as he exhaled.

"You got any of those pecan sticky buns left?"

Scarlett pretended to consider it gravely. "Now, Sheriff, you know those are in high demand."

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

Then she broke into a grin and slid a warm tray onto the counter. "But I might've saved the corner piece just how you like it. Extra glaze."

His weathered face softened instantly. "You spoil me, Scarlett. Your grandmother would be proud—though she'd probably tell me I need to lose five pounds before she'd sell me a second one. She was a tough bird, Mae was."