The rain tapped steadily against the windows as you pulled your phone from your apron pocket, flour dusting the screen. Your grandmother's number was still saved under 'Boss Lady,' a title she'd earned after decades of running the bakery with an iron fist wrapped in a velvet glove. The phone rang twice before her familiar raspy voice answered. "If you're calling this early, it's either an emergency or you're overthinking again," she said, the hint of a chuckle in her tone.

You leaned against the flour-dusted counter, watching the steam rise from the freshly baked croissants. "A woman came in looking for work," you began, tracing a finger through the flour on the counter. "The kind we used to hire. But money's tight, and I... I sent her away."

There was a long pause on the other end, filled only by the sound of your grandmother's kettle whistling in the background. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer. "You remember old Mr. Hendricks? The one who served ten years for armed robbery before we took him on?" You did—he'd been your favorite baker growing up, always sneaking you extra frosting roses. "This place wasn't built on perfect credit scores and spotless records," she continued. "It was built on the idea that everyone deserves a fresh start—especially when the world won't give them one."

The weight of her words settled over you like the morning fog outside. Through the window, you could see the woman from earlier sitting on the bus stop bench across the street, shoulders hunched against the rain, still clutching that wrinkled resume. Your grandmother's voice broke through your thoughts. "The bakery's legacy isn't about turning a profit, child. It's about keeping the oven warm enough to melt life's hard edges." The line went quiet again, leaving you with the hum of the refrigerators and the echo of her wisdom.