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The midday sun beat down on the cobblestone square as Dora adjusted her faded sunhat, sweat trickling down her neck. Her ice cart’s squeaky wheels groaned louder than the occasional breeze—business had been slower than a snail race all week. Across the plaza, that flashy new gelato stall lured crowds with neon sprinkles and free samples, their laughter grating against her nerves. She glanced at the melting inventory, calculating how many cones she’d need to sell before sundown to keep the cart another month. A group of kids sprinted past, coins jingling in pockets. Time to switch tactics. Dora cranked the cart’s music box, its off-key jingle cutting through the hum of chatter, and unfurled her hand-painted banner: *“Mystery Flavor Challenge—Guess Right, Free Cone!”* Curiosity flickered in passing faces. First one customer, then two, then a cluster formed. She hid a grin, scooping vibrant swirls into crispy waffle cones. Let the gelato guy fight over sprinkles. This was survival—and Dora’s recipes had stories no neon sign could match.
