The oven timer's insistent beep pulled your attention away from the woman's confession. You glanced at the clock above the door—the croissants would burn if you didn't act fast. 'Excuse me,' you muttered, wiping flour-streaked hands on your apron as you hurried toward the oven. The heat hit your face in a wave as you pulled open the door, revealing golden-brown pastries puffing perfectly at the edges.

As you transferred the baking sheet to the cooling rack, your mind raced. The scent of buttery dough filled the small kitchen, normally a comforting aroma, but now it did little to settle your nerves. Through the service window, you could see the woman still standing awkwardly by the counter, her fingers now smoothing out the wrinkles she'd made in her resume. The rain outside had picked up, tapping a restless rhythm against the glass.

You returned to the front, the warmth of the oven still clinging to your skin. The woman opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old building settling. Your eyes dropped to the resume still clutched in her hands—the paper slightly damp now from her nervous grip.