As you turned back to your workstation, a flash of white caught your eye—the edge of a paper peeking out from beneath a sack of flour. The woman must have left her resume on the counter after all. You wiped your hands clean and carefully pulled it free, the paper slightly creased from where it had been hastily folded. The name at the top read 'Mira Chen' in neat, precise handwriting.

Her work history was sparse, with gaps that spoke of hard times—a few months at a diner, a year at a laundromat, then nothing for nearly two years. At the bottom, under 'Additional Skills,' she had written: 'I learn fast. I don’t complain. I just want a chance.' The words were underlined twice, the pen pressed so deep it nearly tore the page. A smudge near the edge might have been a teardrop.

You set the resume down, your fingers leaving flour prints on the corners. Through the rain-streaked window, you could just make out a figure sitting on the bus stop bench across the street, shoulders hunched against the weather. Mira hadn’t left. She was waiting. The oven timer beeped again, insistent, but you found yourself reaching for the shop’s spare umbrella instead, its bright yellow fabric clashing with the gray morning.