You wiped your flour-dusted hands on your apron and motioned toward the door. 'Let's talk outside,' you said, grabbing your worn denim jacket from the hook. The woman nodded, relief flickering across her face as she followed you into the damp morning air.

The rain fell gently, more mist than downpour, blurring the edges of the empty street. You leaned against the bakery's brick exterior, the rough surface catching at your jacket. The woman stood a few feet away, her fingers worrying the now-damp resume. 'It wasn't just the mistake,' she said suddenly, her voice steadier in the open air. 'It was the cover-up afterward. The hospital told me to say it was an equipment malfunction. I went along with it for weeks before I couldn't take it anymore.'

A delivery truck rumbled by, its tires hissing on the wet pavement. You watched her profile in the gray light—the tightness around her mouth, the way she kept glancing at the bakery window like she expected to be watched. 'Why baking?' you asked. She smiled faintly, the first real expression you'd seen from her. 'My grandmother was a baker. Only time I ever felt safe as a kid was in her kitchen.'

The rain picked up, dripping from the awning onto your shoulders. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. You thought about your grandmother's hands—knuckles swollen from decades of kneading dough, always steady, always offering bread instead of judgment. The oven timer's muffled beep sounded from inside. The croissants would be perfect now; another minute and they'd burn.