You shook your head slightly, as if physically dispelling the thought of the woman from your mind. The oven timer was still beeping insistently, and the dough wouldn't shape itself. Steeling your focus, you turned back to your work, pressing your palms deep into the next batch of dough with more force than necessary. The yeasty scent filled your nose as you kneaded, the repetitive motion gradually easing the tension in your shoulders.

By mid-morning, the bakery had settled into its usual rhythm. Customers came and went in waves, their chatter and the clinking of coffee cups creating a comforting hum of activity. You moved through your tasks mechanically—filling orders, wiping counters, restocking the display case—your hands remembering the motions even as your thoughts wandered. The rain outside had thickened into a steady downpour, turning the sidewalk into a shimmering ribbon beneath the awning's glow.

During a brief lull, you found yourself staring at the door where the woman had stood earlier. A smudge of flour marked the spot where she'd brushed against the counter. Without quite meaning to, you reached into your apron pocket and pulled out the business card of the local shelter—the one you'd tucked away after last month's bread donation. The edges were frayed from being carried around so long. The oven timer went off again, startling you from your reverie.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of steam and sugar. When you finally flipped the sign to 'Closed,' your fingers ached and your apron was crusted with a day's worth of batter and dough. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, leaving the streets glistening under the amber glow of streetlights. As you wiped down the last counter, you noticed something small and white peeking out from beneath the door—a corner of paper that hadn't been there before.