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On New Year’s Eve, the sisters eagerly planned to watch the lakeside fireworks together, but neither wanted to enjoy the dazzling display without something sweet to savor. Determined to pair the night’s magic with their favorite treats, they spent the afternoon baking fluffy cupcakes, filling their kitchen with the warm scent of vanilla and laughter. Once the last batch cooled, they carefully packed the cupcakes into a woven basket, imagining how the bursts of light above the water would taste even sweeter with every crumbly, frosting-topped bite in hand.
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The city buzzed with anticipation as twilight draped itself over New Year’s Eve, the lakeshore already dotted with families staking claims for the night’s spectacle. Twin sisters, their laughter harmonizing with the distant chatter of the crowd, huddled in their kitchen—a flour-dusted battlefield of mixing bowls and vanilla extract. Fireworks weren’t fireworks without the crunch of sugar-glazed cupcakes, they’d agreed, and so batter splattered the counter as they raced the clock, giggling through oven mitts and timers. Ribbons were tied, dresses chosen with theatrical flair—one in cobalt silk mirroring the night sky, the other in gold like the first star—before they sprinted toward the water, tins clutched tight. When the first explosion of color fractured the darkness, they sat cross-legged on their checkered blanket, crumbs on their fingers and wonder in their eyes, the lake’s surface rippling with reflections of both sparks and shared grins.
