Your fingers trembled slightly as you peeled back the corner of the faded family photo, revealing the edge of something thicker behind it. A layer of dust puffed into the air as you carefully lifted the picture away, exposing a worn leather-bound ledger you hadn't seen since you were a child. The cover bore your grandmother's looping script: 'Second Chances, 1982-1999.'

Setting aside your rolling pin, you opened the brittle pages to find meticulous records of every person she'd ever hired—names, dates, and in the margins, short notes in her distinctive handwriting. 'José—best éclair hands in the city, parole officer calls weekly,' read one entry. 'Mirabel—hearts as big as her cinnamon rolls, three kids at home,' read another. Each page held stories of lives touched by the bakery's unspoken mission.

As you turned to the final page, a folded newspaper clipping fluttered to the counter. The headline read 'Local Bakery Gives Ex-Con New Life' above a photo of your beaming grandmother arm-in-arm with a young man in a flour-dusted apron. Your throat tightened remembering how she'd always said, 'This place wasn't built on sugar, child—it was built on faith.'

The rain intensified outside, drumming against the roof in waves. Through the downpour, you noticed movement near the alley across the street—the same woman from earlier, huddled under a broken awning, clutching the pastry bag to her chest like a life preserver. Lightning flashed, illuminating the desperate way she scanned each passing car. The ledger's spine creaked as your grip tightened.