You didn’t hesitate. Standing up, you walked to the hook near the kitchen door where a spare apron—slightly frayed at the edges but clean—hung waiting. The fabric was soft from years of use, the faint stains of chocolate and berry jam still visible if one looked closely. You handed it to Mara, watching as her fingers traced the embroidered name of the bakery stitched above the pocket.

'It’s yours if you want it,' you said simply. 'We open in an hour. Think you can handle the morning rush?'

Mara’s breath caught, her eyes glistening as she clutched the apron to her chest. For a moment, she didn’t speak, her lips pressed together as if afraid the opportunity might vanish if she acknowledged it too loudly. Then she nodded, swift and sure, already tying the apron strings with practiced hands. 'I won’t let you down,' she whispered.

The next hour passed in a blur of movement—Mara shadowing you as you showed her where the ingredients were stored, how the temperamental oven liked its temperature just a hair higher than the dial claimed, which regulars preferred their coffee black versus drowning in cream. She absorbed it all like dry earth soaking up rain, her movements growing more confident with each task.

Then the bell jingled, and the first customers of the day stepped in, shaking rain from their coats. You watched from behind the counter as Mara greeted them, her voice still quiet but steady, her hands already reaching for the tongs to select the perfect almond croissant for the elderly man who came in every Tuesday. The bakery hummed to life around you, the scent of sugar and possibility thick in the air.