Every Sunday, Corlin waits at the marigold crossing – four rooftops from the bakery, one roof down from the clocktower.
The Lemon Relay always comes through her.
First the child on the rope bridge. Then the girl with the skip-step across the skylights. Then a boy who’s always late, tumbling over the compost barrels.
By the time it reaches Corlin, the lemon’s warm from hands and sun. She cups it in her marigold bloom, spins once, and sends it rolling down the plank slide toward the baker’s chimney.
Everyone cheers when it makes it.
Some weeks, it doesn’t.
That’s why the cake’s never exactly the same.