I stand in the kitchen enjoying the peaceful, quiet awakening of dawn, my coffee cup ready for those first drops of dark, liquid energy, when I hear a voice. My hands tremble even as I strain to hear better.

Faint at first, like a whisper on the wind, the voice grows louder and distinctly more female. I can’t make out the words she says or to whom she is speaking, but as I listen, it becomes clear that she isn’t happy. “Hello?” I call as a shiver runs down my spine, but as quickly as her voice had come, it fades, and I am once again alone.

I drink my coffee down in gulps, trying to dispel the deep chill that settles into my bones and quickly refill my cup just so my hands will stop shaking.

By nine, the woman’s voice is lingering in the back of my mind as other, more pressing matters take center stage.

“Miss Windsor,” a deliveryman hollers as he stands in the doorway of my shop, a huge box in his hands.

“Coming!” I call. I weave through the maze of boxes, bags, and oddities that I’d haphazardly strewn across my shop floor. Moving is always an ordeal, and moving both personally and professionally only complicates things further. While my upstairs apartment was essentially finished, my shop is far from it.

“Thank you,” I huff, taking the box from him.

“Mm-hmm,” is his reply as he turns to go.

Sighing, I find an empty spot and unload the box’s weight before standing up to survey the damage. I’d spent the best part of the morning unloading the storage unit I’d rented in advance of moving in, and while I’d been able to close the unit, I wondered why I’d felt the need to bring it all with me this morning.

“Hello!” comes a cheerful voice, and I turn toward my front door.

I’d moved to Willow’s Hollow two weeks ago, purchased a cute little shop on Main Street, and have yet to meet anyone who seems the least bit warm and inviting.

With another sigh, I bury myself in boxes for the rest of the day, packing my limited backroom storage until it looks like Monica’s on that one episode of Friends.

With at least twenty more boxes on the floor, I make the executive decision that my spare bedroom upstairs is now extended storage.

By five, I was tired, and my arms felt like wet rags hanging off my shoulders.

My dusty shop beckons me, but I give it the middle finger and lock up for the night. I’m not going to make myself sick with work just to open one day sooner.

I pull my jacket tighter to ward off the damp chill of a September afternoon and head down the street to Bedford’s Bakery and Café.