You wiped your hands on your apron, leaving faint streaks of flour, and gestured toward the door. "Let's step outside for a moment," you said, your voice softer than you intended. The woman nodded, relief flashing across her tired face. The morning air was crisp, carrying the damp promise of rain, and the streets were just beginning to stir with life. You leaned against the brick wall of the bakery, the rough texture pressing into your back, and studied her. "Why this place?" you asked. "There are other bakeries in town."

She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the crumpled resume. "My brother," she said finally, her voice cracking. "He... he worked here. Years ago. After he got out of prison." She looked up, her eyes glistening. "He said your grandmother saved his life. Gave him a purpose when no one else would even look at him." A solitary tear traced a path down her cheek, and she swiped at it angrily. "I’m not him. I haven’t... I haven’t been to prison or anything. But I’ve made mistakes. Big ones. And now no one will hire me."

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the potted plants lining the bakery’s entrance. You could see the desperation in her posture, the way her shoulders hunched as if bracing for rejection. The bakery’s awning creaked above you, a familiar sound that had always felt like home. But home was expensive now, and the ledger in the back room was a mess of red ink. Still, the weight of your grandmother’s legacy pressed against your ribs. "What’s your name?" you asked quietly.

"Lena," she whispered. "Lena Reyes."

You exhaled slowly, watching your breath mist in the cool air. The city around you was waking up, the distant hum of traffic filling the silence. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. You thought of your grandmother’s hands, gnarled and strong, kneading dough with the same care she’d shown every soul who walked through that door. You thought of the ledger. Then you thought of Lena’s brother, whoever he was, and the second chance he’d been given.