You gently place a single butter tart on the tray—golden, gooey, and still warm from Elsie’s hearth. “It’s not much,” you say, “but it’s meant to be shared.”

The bellhop leans in, inhaling deeply. For a moment, his eyes soften. “That… that smells like the staff lounge in winter. Like payday. Like home.”

He lifts the tart, takes a bite, and chews slowly. Then he sighs—not with satisfaction, but with longing. “It’s close,” he murmurs. “So close. But sweetness alone doesn’t make a potluck offering. It needs heart. It needs… intention. Try again, traveler.”