You folded Mira's resume with a sigh, tucking it into the 'maybe' drawer beneath the counter where other hopeful applications had gathered dust. The weight of Mrs. Calloway's words pressed harder than the dough you'd been kneading. The display case needed filling, the espresso machine hissed impatiently, but all you could see were the numbers—rent, supplies, wages—dancing behind your eyes like errant flour motes in the sunlight.

By midday, the bakery's warmth had turned stifling. You wiped sweat from your brow as you counted out the register, fingers sticking slightly to the bills. The tally wasn't enough. Not nearly. Through the window, you watched people pass by without glancing at your displays, their arms laden with paper bags bearing the logo of that new chain bakery three blocks over. The croissants in your case had gone stiff at the edges.

A crash from the kitchen startled you. Antoine, your lanky dishwasher with the tattooed knuckles, stood amid a wreckage of sheet pans, his face pale beneath the kitchen's fluorescent lights. 'I'm sorry, boss,' he mumbled, already crouching to gather the metal sheets. You noticed his hands shaking—the same tremors that had cost him his last job after the accident. Without thinking, you knelt beside him, picking up a dented pan. 'We've all dropped stuff,' you said, pressing the cool metal into his steadying grip. His relieved smile made something ache in your chest.

The bell jingled again. This time it was old Mr. Petrovsky, his wool coat smelling of pipe tobacco as he leaned heavily on his cane. 'One of your grandmother's apple tarts,' he wheezed, tapping the glass exactly where they'd always been displayed. You had to swallow hard before admitting, 'We didn't make any today.' His bushy eyebrows drew together. 'But it's Tuesday,' he said, as if this simple fact should have ensured the universe provided. As he left empty-handed, you caught him glancing at the competing bakery's neon sign glowing down the street.