I don't know why I'm even writing this, it's not a big deal really, but it's late and my phone's glowing and my hip aches so I might as well type it out. It's about Agnes, the girl who runs the bakery up near the old mill. She's not a girl, not really, more like in her late thirties, but she’s got that look about her, you know? Like a kid, all bright-eyed and full of plans. She came here maybe five, six years ago, from the city. Said she wanted to bake, escape the hustle. And she *can* bake. Oh, her sourdough? Divine. The best rye bread I’ve had since my grandmother, God rest her soul, used to make it in her wood-fired oven. Anyway, Agnes, she decided this year was going to be the year for online ordering. Get a website, expand her reach beyond just the folks who wander in from Main Street or brave the icy drive from the county seat. She was so excited, talking about shipping her famous gingerbread cookies all over the state, maybe even nationwide. It would have been a boon for her, especially with the holidays coming up. You know, Christmas and New Year’s, that’s when everyone wants something special, something comforting. And that's the... well, the stupid part. She didn't launch it. The whole holiday season, gone. Passed us by like a tumbleweed in a dust storm. Because she couldn't decide on a font. I swear to God, I’m not exaggerating. A single font for the website. She showed me, weeks ago, a dozen different ones. All these squiggly things, some that looked like old printing press, some that looked like a child’s handwriting. She called them "serif" and "sans-serif" and "script." Used all these fancy terms, like she was a graphic designer or something. And she just… couldn't choose. It wasn’t even the logo she was fretting over, just the text for the product descriptions. She’d spend hours, days, agonizing. Saying things like, "This one feels too... aggressive," or "This one doesn't convey the artisanal integrity of my croissants." And I’d just nod, try to be supportive, but inside I was screaming, *Just pick one, Agnes! ANY one!* It’s a website, for goodness sake, not a museum exhibit. I think it's a form of… what do they call it? Paralysis by analysis? Or maybe a kind of perfectionism that borders on self-sabotage. It's not like she's going to lose money on it, not directly, but all that potential income from the Christmas rush? Gone. Just evaporated into the cold winter air. And it makes me so… sad. Not for me, I’m fine, I’ll get my sourdough no matter what. But for her. She works so hard, 18-hour days sometimes. And to just trip over something so trivial, something so utterly… inconsequential. It’s like watching a bird build a perfect nest, only to forget how to fly. She laughs about it, sometimes, when I go in for my morning coffee. A kind of brittle, nervous laugh. "Oh, you know me, Mrs. Henderson," she'll say, "always chasing perfection!" And I just smile, try to reassure her, but I see the exhaustion in her eyes, the worry lines deepening. It reminds me of… well, it reminds me of a lot of things. Small town, everyone sees everything. Everyone knows everyone’s quiet little flaws. It’s not malicious, just… observation. And sometimes, you just wish you could shake someone awake. Before it's too late. Before another year, another season, just slips away. And all for a typeface. It’s absolutely ridiculous. And heartbreaking.