You tucked Mira’s resume into the pocket of your apron, the paper crinkling softly against the fabric. The afternoon lull gave you just enough time to slip out and ask around. The bakery was nestled between a tailor’s shop and a small bookstore, both run by folks who’d been in the neighborhood for decades. You ducked into the tailor’s first, the scent of wool and starch thick in the air. Old man Henderson peered over his glasses at you, his needle paused mid-stitch. 'Mira?' he echoed, scratching his beard. 'Haven’t seen her in years. Used to babysit my grandkids before... well.' He shrugged, his gaze flickering away. 'Things got rough for her.'

Next, you tried the bookstore. Mrs. Patel was rearranging a display of cookbooks when you brought up Mira’s name. Her expression softened. 'Oh, poor thing. She worked here part-time last winter—quiet, but always punctual. Then one day, she just stopped showing up.' Mrs. Patel leaned in, lowering her voice. 'Rumor has it she was staying at the women’s shelter over on Elm. Had some trouble with an ex, I think.'

Armed with fragments of Mira’s story, you returned to the bakery just as the first drops of rain began to patter against the windows. The phone rang again—Mrs. Calloway, no doubt. You let it go to voicemail, your fingers tracing the edge of Mira’s resume. The gaps in her history weren’t just gaps; they were wounds. Outside, the awning shuddered in the wind, its frayed edges a mirror of the woman who’d stood there hours ago.