The phone felt heavy in your hand as you punched in the number Mira had scribbled on her resume. It rang three times before a hesitant voice answered. 'Mira? It’s the bakery,' you said, your eyes drifting to the flour-streaked counter. 'Can you come in tomorrow for a trial shift? Just a few hours to see how you like it—and how we like you.' The silence on the other end stretched so long you wondered if she’d hung up.

Then, a shaky inhale. 'Yes. Yes, I’ll be there.' Her voice was thick with something you couldn’t place—gratitude, fear, hope. You gave her the details and hung up, staring at the 'Help Wanted' sign again. This was either the dumbest or the bravest thing you’d done all month.

The next morning, Mira arrived fifteen minutes early, her hair pulled into a tight bun, her hands clasped in front of her like she was holding onto herself for dear life. You tossed her an apron. 'Ever worked dough before?' She shook her head, but her gaze didn’t waver. 'I’ll watch first,' you said, guiding her to the counter where a fresh batch of pastry dough waited. Mira watched your hands like they held the secrets of the universe, her brow furrowed in concentration.

By the third croissant, her fingers were moving with surprising grace, the dough folding under her touch as if it recognized her. 'You’re a natural,' you admitted, and the way her face lit up made something in your chest tighten. The morning passed in a rhythm of rolling pins and oven timers, Mira absorbing every instruction like a sponge. When the first customers trickled in, you let her handle the register, and though her hands trembled when making change, she didn’t make a single mistake.

At noon, you handed her a still-warm pain au chocolat. 'So?' you asked. Mira took a bite, flakes of pastry catching on her lips. 'I want to stay,' she said, simple and sure. Outside, the sun broke through the clouds, casting the bakery in gold.