The woman's hunched silhouette disappearing into the rain stayed with you as you reached for the phone behind the counter. Your fingers left faint flour prints on the receiver as you dialed the number you knew by heart—Hope Street Shelter. The line rang twice before a familiar voice answered. "Martha speaking," came the warm, tired greeting.

You pressed your palm against the cool countertop. "It's me from the bakery. I just turned away someone who might need a bed tonight." You described the woman's frayed coat, the way her hands had trembled around that resume. Through the window, lightning split the purple-gray sky.

Martha sighed, the sound of rustling papers in the background. "We've got three cots left. Storm's bringing in more folks than usual." She paused. "You sure she'll come? Last week that dishwasher you sent us walked right past our door."

The timer buzzed again—croissants golden and perfect. You slid them out with practiced hands. "I think... this one's different," you said, remembering how she'd cradled the pastry bag like it was the first kindness she'd been offered in years. Martha promised to keep the cot until midnight. As you hung up, the shop bell rang again.

A drenched businessman hurried in, shaking water from his umbrella. "Two black coffees and whatever's freshest!" he barked, tapping his phone against the glass case. You wrapped the croissants mechanically, your gaze drifting to the window where the woman had vanished. The rain came down harder now, drumming against the pavement like impatient fingers. The radio warned of rising floodwaters near the river district—where the shelter stood. As the businessman left with his order, you noticed he'd left his umbrella leaning against the counter.