The rain intensified, streaking down the bakery windows like tears on glass. You leaned against the counter, watching the distorted shapes of people hurrying past, their umbrellas blooming like mushrooms in the storm. The croissants in the oven released their buttery perfume, but it did little to lift the weight in your chest. The woman's hollow expression haunted you—the way her fingers had trembled when she took the pastries, as if kindness itself was foreign to her.

A gust of wind sent the awning flapping violently, startling you from your thoughts. Through the downpour, you spotted a figure still standing beneath the bakery's overhang—her. She hadn't left. The paper bag clutched to her chest was growing soggy at the edges. Every few seconds she'd glance back at the bakery door, then at the storm, caught in some private battle. Lightning flashed, illuminating the deep hollows of her cheeks.

Behind you, the radio announcer warned of rising floodwaters near the river district. Your fingers twitched toward the door handle just as she turned to leave. That's when you saw it—the unmistakable outline of an ankle monitor beneath her soaked pant leg. The realization hit like a punch to the gut. Your grandmother's voice echoed in your memory: 'Hungry people make honest mistakes, but hungry souls deserve honest bread.' The ledger's red numbers blurred before your eyes.