It was the beginning of another gorgeous weekend in Ponyville. The air was warm, the sun was shining, and everypony in Ponyville was outside enjoying the weather. Everypony except one, that is.
Somewhere above the town, a lone gray-blue eye peered out at all the activity from behind a pair of curtains. Everypony seemed to be enjoying themselves. Everywhere the eye looked, ponies were out having fun and enjoying each others’ company. A pink Pegasus with blue hair was zooming around the sky doing flying acrobatics. A seafoam-green unicorn and a light yellow earth pony with magenta highlights in her indigo mane were walking side-by-side like they had been doing for as long as anypony could remember. A group of young foals were chatting amongst themselves in the middle of the town, and from the occasional backward glances at their flanks, there was no doubt as to the fact that they were talking about their newly-acquired cutie marks.
If curtains could slam, they certainly did then. “That’s right,” muttered the owner of the slate-blue eye under her breath. “When you’ve got it, flaunt it!” She looked at her clock. 11:45. Meh, as good a time to get up as any. She walked into her bathroom and brushed her teeth, then her hair (a redundant task, really, considering how flat and static it was to begin with). She looked in the mirror. An all-too-familiar look of glum apathy stared her back. One more day, she thought to herself. One more day of a hollow, meaningless existence alone. Heaving a sigh, Pinkamena Diane Pie turned around, exited the bathroom, and started to make her way downstairs.
Wait a second.
Pinkamena sniffed the air. What’s that smell?
It was faint, but it was definitely present. A warm smell, somehow familiar, but nothing that Pinkamena could put her hoof on at the moment. It was certainly not a smell that she usually had in her house—indeed, there was normally not much of a smell of anything in her house. She hardly ever opened any windows or even really used anything in her small kitchen other than the microwave.
The kitchen.
That smell!
It smells like…somepony is baking something!
Pinkamena, bewildered by the smell, continued to walk downstairs in a slow, suspicious fashion. Where the hay could this smell be coming fr—
“La, la-la-la la, la-la-la la!”
Pinkamena stopped. She could have sworn she heard somepony humming. After a short period of silence, she started slowly walking on again to her kitchen, becoming slightly more paranoid.
“La-la-la, la-la-la, la-la-la-la!”
There it was again. A high, squeaky voice humming tunelessly—and it sounded like it was coming from the kitchen! Pinkamena, now more suspicious than ever, inched slowly toward the source of the sound. The smell had gotten stronger, and it was indeed coming from her kitchen. Her own kitchen. This was getting nothing short of creepy. Slowly, she inched toward the room. Slowly, she peered into the doorway.
A bright pink filly with a mane the color and texture of cotton candy was pulling a tray out of the oven. The strange filly turned to look at Pinkamena.
“Morning, sleepyhead!” the filly chirped.