I turn around to look at the view behind me.
Oh.
The harbor spreads out below amid the fog, water churning against the docks, boats bobbing in their slips. The mist is rolling in properly now, thicker and purposeful, creeping across the water. It moves in waves, fingers of white fog reaching toward the land, curling around the pilings, swallowing the far edge of the harbor entirely.
It’s hauntingly beautiful. The kind of view that makes you understand why people write poetry about the sea.
Snow falls steadily, softening every edge, and the whole scene looks like a painting someone forgot to finish. I could stand here and stare at this for hours.
But my feet are freezing, and I still need to find my rental apartment, so I force myself to turn around.
And immediately forget about being cold.
The town of Mistberry Cove reminds me of those quaint towns you see in tourist brochures.
The houses up here are painted in soft pastels that somehow don’t look ridiculous against the snow. Pale blue with white trim.Dusty rose with darker pink accents. Butter yellow with sage-green shutters. Lavender. Mint. Cream. They’re two and three stories tall, most of them narrow and pressed close together, with peaked roofs that shed snow in elegant slides. Big windows glow warm from the inside, and nearly every sill is crowded with flower boxes.
There are no sprawling front yards, just sidewalks that run right up to the buildings, with a few steps leading to painted front doors. Some have small porches, barely big enough for a chair and a potted plant. Others have ornate iron railings, delicate and decorative.
The whole effect is distinctly European. Northern European, maybe. Like someone took a Norwegian fishing village and a Danish harbor town and mixed them together, then added just enough New England sensibility to make it feel grounded.
Beyond the town, rolling mountains rise in waves, covered in dense pine forests that look black against the gray sky. The wilderness is close here, like civilization is just borrowing this space temporarily and the trees are waiting patiently to reclaim it.
I’m mesmerized.
This doesn’t look anything like Portland. The city I left behind is all glass and steel and carefully planned green spaces. This is organic. Layered. The kind of place that grew naturally over decades, maybe centuries, without anyone trying to force it into a grid.
Why have I never been here before?
I grew up three hours away and somehow never bothered to visit. Never even heard much about it, except as a vague destination for summer tourists who wanted to see whales and that it’s where all the mist gathers.
I could live here, I think, then immediately shake my head. No. I’m here for work. Undercover investigation, then back to the city and my real life.
But still. The thought lingers.
I start walking, my suitcase bumping over the cobblestones because apparently this town is committed to being as picturesque as possible, even if it means my luggage suffers. The main street curves gently, following the natural slope of the land, lined with shops and cafés and small businesses.
There’s a bookstore with a hand-painted sign. A yarn shop with baskets of wool displayed in the window. A general store that has old-fashioned glass jars visible on the shelves inside.
And then I see a bakery. I stop walking so abruptly that my suitcase runs into the back of my legs.
The storefront is painted cream with soft pink trim, and the windows are absolutely stuffed with baskets overflowing with baked goods. Croissants. Scones. Muffins the size of my fist. Crusty loaves of bread that look like they should be in a still-life painting. The baskets are woven wicker, lined with checkered cloth in different colors, and they’re arranged on wooden shelves that frame the window like something out of a fairy tale.
But it’s what’s inside that makes my mouth fall open.
Through the glass, it’s a space that screamscozy. Couches, deep and soft-looking, upholstered in jewel tones. Mismatched armchairs cluster around low tables. Proper dining tables with chairs are scattered throughout, and from the ceiling hang lights, dozens of them, at different heights. Edison bulbs in copper cages. Paper lanterns. Small chandeliers dripping with crystals that catch the light.
More flowers fill every available surface. Vases on tables. Pots on windowsills. Hanging plants with trailing green vines.
And everywhere,everywhere, there are pastries. On tiered stands. In glass display cases. Arranged on platters like edible art.
My stomach growls so loudly I’m pretty sure people in the next town over can hear it.
I need to go in there. Immediately.
The sign above the door readsThe Flour Housein elegant script, with smaller text underneath that saysBakery & Café Since 1987.
I grab my suitcase and backpack and push through the door.
