You slid the resume back toward her without glancing at it. 'How about a trial shift tomorrow?' you said, keeping your voice light. 'No questions asked. Just show me what you can do.'

Mara's breath caught, and for a moment, she simply stared at you, the pastry forgotten in her hands. Then, slowly, she nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line as if fighting back emotion. 'I won't let you down,' she whispered.

The next morning, you arrived to find Mara already waiting outside the bakery, her hair pulled into a tight bun, arms crossed against the morning chill. She straightened when she saw you, her posture stiff with nerves. Unlocking the door, you flipped on the lights, revealing the quiet kitchen—your sanctuary, now about to become hers, too.

You tossed her an apron. 'Today, you're on danish duty,' you said, nodding toward the laminated dough waiting on the counter. 'Let's see if your hands remember what your heart clearly hasn't forgotten.'

Mara hesitated only a second before tying the apron strings with quick, sure movements. As she washed her hands, you noticed the scars along her knuckles—old burns, the kind every serious baker collects over time. She caught you looking and gave you a small, knowing smile. Then she rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

Within minutes, it was clear: Mara didn't just know her way around dough—she spoke its language. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, shaping the pastry into perfect spirals, her touch just firm enough without being heavy. The kitchen filled with the rich scent of butter and sugar as the first tray went into the oven. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Mara brushed melted butter over the warm pastries with a reverence that told you everything you needed to know.