As the rain tapped gently against the bakery windows, your regular morning crowd began to trickle in—Mr. Henderson with his crossword puzzle tucked under his arm, Mrs. Patel humming softly as she adjusted her floral scarf, and the group of construction workers who always ordered a dozen donuts to share. You poured coffee with practiced ease, but your gaze kept drifting to the door, half-expecting the woman to return.

'Morning, dear,' Mrs. Patel said as she accepted her usual cinnamon roll. 'You seem distracted today.' You hesitated, then leaned slightly over the counter. 'Did any of you see a woman outside earlier? Frayed coat, looked like she was carrying a resume?' The construction workers exchanged glances, but it was Mr. Henderson who spoke up, tapping his newspaper. 'Ah, her. Saw her sleeping on the bench by the post office last night. New in town, I reckon.'

Mrs. Patel's expression softened. 'Poor thing. The shelter's full this time of year.' The words settled heavily in the air. You wiped your hands on your apron, the flour long since rubbed away, but the grit of the decision remained. Outside, the rain intensified, streaking the glass like tears. The bakery's warmth felt suddenly fragile against the world's sharp edges.