You pushed back from the table, the chair scraping softly against the floor. "Why don't you show me what you can do?" you said, nodding toward the kitchen. "We've got a morning bake to finish—consider this your working interview."

Mara's eyes widened slightly, but she stood without hesitation, brushing pastry crumbs from her sleeve. You led her behind the counter, where the dough for the day's croissants still waited to be shaped. Without needing instruction, she washed her hands at the sink, the motions quick and practiced. You handed her an apron, and she tied it around her waist with a deftness that spoke of years in kitchens.

You watched as she took in the workstation—the blocks of butter waiting to be laminated, the bowls of proofing dough, the trays of fillings. Her fingers hovered over the tools before selecting a rolling pin. "May I?" she asked, and when you nodded, she set to work. There was a quiet confidence in her movements as she began to fold and turn the dough, her hands moving with a precision that made your own technique seem clumsy by comparison. The layers came together perfectly, each fold exact, each turn measured.

"You've done this before," you said, unable to keep the admiration from your voice.

Mara allowed herself a small smile. "A few times," she admitted, her focus never leaving the dough. She shaped the croissants with a flick of her wrist, the spirals tight and even. As she worked, the tension seemed to leave her shoulders, replaced by a quiet concentration. The scent of butter and yeast grew richer as the first trays went into the oven, and the kitchen filled with the sound of crackling pastry and Mara's soft hum of satisfaction.

The bell above the door jingled again, and the first customers of the day stepped inside, their noses wrinkling at the tantalizing aroma. Mara glanced up, her hands still dusted with flour, and for the first time since she'd entered the bakery, she looked like she belonged.