Rumors floated that Magnolia’s cooking had strange powers—an old superstition moms used to dissuade kids too keen on cinnamon buns. “She’s putting something in those pies,” one girl whispered. The boys sneered at talk of witches and curses, though secretly, late at night, some dreamt of sweet fragrances turning sickly.
Her silence became weaponlike, gnawing at them. Every insult bounced back as if into a void too vast to fill. They found themselves shouting louder, acting up, afraid of feeling small in her still presence. Day after day, they circled her house like restless birds over a silent field.