Babe held the keys to an empty shop, and empty was the enemy. He wanted to open the coziest tattoo parlor in Yetigorge, a place where every visitor left with art that told their story. But the room did not feel like that yet. It felt like a box. Bare walls. A cold floor. His tattoo machine sat in its case beside a stack of ink bottles, and none of it looked warm. He was a big man, arms covered in his own ink, and he had built things before. Tools he had. Walls he had. He knew that neither made a place cozy. Cozy was harder. Cozy meant a stranger walked in and felt they could stay. So he started with what he owned. He dragged the heavy chair to the center and turned it toward the window, where the light was best. He hung his one framed drawing on the biggest wall. It was small on all that wood, but it was a start. He found two dusty plants in the back and set them on the sills. He wiped the glass until the afternoon light poured through gold and soft. He screwed a lamp into the corner and switched it on. The bare bulb overhead had made everything look like a clinic. The lamp made the wood glow. That helped. He stepped back and looked. Better. Not enough. The room was neat now, and clean, and lit. But it was still quiet in the wrong way. A cozy place had smells and sounds and people. He had none of those. He had a chair and a lamp and a drawing on a wall. He could not fake the rest with tools. He sat in the chair and rubbed his face. He had done everything the walls would allow. The problem was not the walls. That was when the smell reached him. Warm sugar, butter, something baking. It came from under the front door. He stood and opened it. An older woman stood on the step in a thick knit sweater and boots. She held a plate of cookies, still warm, the steam curling up between them. She did not wait to be asked in. "You're the new one," she said. "I'm just down the way. Thought you might be hungry." She looked past him at the chair, the lamp, the lonely drawing, and she smiled like she already knew the whole plan. "It's a good start. Needs people, though." Babe took the plate. The warmth of it went straight through his hands. In one breath the room smelled like a home. He understood then what his tools could not buy. "I don't even know your name," he said. "Wren," she said. "Wren Hollowell. I'm good at front desks." Babe laughed, surprised. The shop was still half empty. But it was not quiet anymore, and he was not alone in it.