At first, she’s all warm sugar, sea breeze, and pine bark - a soft lure, tempting you in. Then she turns: a cookie left on the dash of a stolen car, parked cliffside, sunset bleeding into the Pacific. Her base notes sink in like sin - kerosene and waterlogged wood. Her song becomes a lullaby. Before you know it, you’re a shipwreck: broken, lovelorn on the rocks. Hers is the last voice you’ll hear. You don’t walk away from Ocean Grown Cookies. You wash ashore.