The words tasted bitter as you said them, "I'm sorry, but the bakery can't take the risk right now." Her face fell instantly, the fragile hope in her eyes shattering like a dropped pastry. She nodded stiffly, clutching the ruined resume to her chest like a shield.

As she turned to leave, her worn shoes squeaking on the flour-dusted floor, something caught in your throat. The bell jingled as she pushed the door open, letting in a gust of rain-scented wind. You saw her pause on the threshold, shoulders shaking once before squaring with forced dignity.

Then your gaze fell on the family photo behind the counter - your grandmother standing proudly in this same spot, arm around a young cook who'd done time for armed robbery. The memory hit you like a rolling pin to the chest. Before you could stop yourself, you called out, "Wait!"

The woman froze, not daring to turn fully around. You wiped flour-covered hands on your apron, heart pounding. "We open at 6am," you said, voice rough. "Don't be late." The rain suddenly sounded louder as she slowly turned, disbelief warring with fragile hope on her face.

Your grandmother's voice seemed to whisper from the very walls of the bakery, "Second chances rise like bread, given time and warmth." The oven timer beeped again, filling the shop with the scent of new beginnings.