You glanced at the clock—still a few hours before closing. With a determined exhale, you tied your apron tighter and pulled out the industrial mixer. Flour, butter, and sugar flew as you doubled the usual recipe, your muscles burning with the effort. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon grew thick in the air as trays of almond twists and fruit Danishes joined the croissants in the oven.

By midnight, every spare surface was covered in cooling racks laden with pastries. You packed them carefully into boxes, your fingers sticky with glaze. The next morning, you arrived at the weekend market before sunrise, securing a spot near the entrance. As the sun rose, so did the crowd. Your stall became a hub of activity, the pastries disappearing almost as fast as you could unpack them.

A familiar face appeared—Mira, holding two steaming cups of coffee. 'I thought you might need this,' she said, handing one to you. Her eyes widened as she took in the nearly empty boxes. 'Looks like you’re doing well.' You nodded, wiping sweat from your brow. 'We might just make rent after all.' Mira hesitated, then began rearranging the remaining pastries with practiced hands. 'Let me help,' she said quietly. For the first time in weeks, you felt a flicker of hope.