You hesitated for a moment, then gestured toward the small wrought-iron table outside the bakery. "Let's sit," you said, brushing flour from your apron as you pulled out a chair. Lena followed, her movements careful, as if afraid to take up too much space. The metal chair creaked under her slight weight. "Tell me about your brother," you said, watching as she smoothed the crumpled resume against her lap.

Lena's fingers trembled slightly. "His name was Marco," she began, her voice gaining strength. "He was... he's the reason I'm standing here." She swallowed hard. "After he got out, he couldn't find work anywhere. Then someone told him about this place. Said your grandmother didn't care about records, only about willing hands."

A distant siren wailed somewhere in the city as Lena continued. "He worked here for three years. Learned to make sourdough from scratch, could knead dough better than anyone." A sad smile touched her lips. "He'd come home smelling like cinnamon and tell me about the regulars - the old man who always bought two almond croissants, the little girl who pressed her nose against the case every Saturday."

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of coming rain. Lena's expression darkened. "Two years ago, he..." Her voice broke. "He relapsed. OD'd in a motel room." She looked up, tears glistening. "But the last good years he had? They started here. In this bakery."

You studied her face - the set of her jaw, the shadows under her eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights. The awning above you flapped in the wind. Somewhere inside, the oven timer dinged, signaling the croissants were ready. The sound felt oddly final, like a punctuation mark to her story.