The ledger pages stuck together slightly as you flipped through them, the ink of your grandmother's careful handwriting blurred in places from what might have been coffee spills or tears. You traced a finger down the columns, calculating and recalculating the numbers. The rent was due in five days, and the bakery's account held barely enough to cover it—with nothing left for ingredients, let alone wages. A knot formed in your throat as you reached the last page, where your own shaky notes from last month's inventory check confirmed what you already knew: costs were rising faster than sales.

A gust of wind rattled the front window, drawing your attention outside. The rain had worsened, forming small rivers in the gutter. The woman from earlier was still visible down the street, now huddled under a bus stop shelter with her paper bag clutched to her chest. You watched as she carefully opened it and took a small bite of croissant, her whole body seeming to relax for just a moment.

The oven timer beeped again, insistent. As you transferred the golden croissants to the cooling rack, your grandmother's voice echoed in your memory: 'This shop was built on second chances, not second thoughts.' The photo by the register caught your eye—her flour-dusted hands shaping dough, the same way yours were now. You wiped your palms on your apron and looked around the quiet shop, the empty tables, the 'Help Wanted' sign you'd taken down last week. The numbers in the ledger didn't lie... but maybe they didn't tell the whole story either.