You pushed off the wall and opened the bakery door, the jingle of the bell sounding louder in the quiet morning. "Come inside, Lena," you said, holding the door for her. The warmth of the bakery enveloped you both as you stepped in, the scent of rising dough and caramelizing sugar wrapping around you like a blanket. Lena hesitated at the threshold, her shoes scuffing against the worn welcome mat.

You motioned toward the back room. "Let’s get you an apron." As you rummaged through the spare linens, your fingers brushed against your grandmother’s old rolling pin, its wood smooth from decades of use. You pulled out a slightly frayed but clean apron and handed it to Lena. "We’ll start you with something simple. Can you knead dough?"

Lena’s hands trembled as she tied the apron strings. "I—I’ve never done it before," she admitted, her voice small. You smiled, guiding her toward the worktable where a fresh batch of dough waited. "That’s okay. Everyone starts somewhere." You demonstrated the motion, pressing your palms into the dough, folding and turning it with practiced ease. Lena watched intently, her brow furrowed in concentration.

When she tried, her first attempts were clumsy, the dough sticking to her fingers. But after a few minutes, she found a rhythm, her movements growing steadier. You nodded approvingly. "Not bad for your first time." A flicker of pride crossed her face, and for the first time since she’d walked in, her shoulders relaxed.

The oven timer dinged, and you pulled out a tray of golden-brown croissants, their flaky layers glistening with butter. Lena inhaled sharply. "They smell amazing." You broke one in half, steam rising from the center, and handed her a piece. "Taste it." She took a tentative bite, and her eyes widened. "Oh my god," she mumbled around the mouthful. "This is incredible." You chuckled. "That’s the magic of this place. Now, let’s see if you can help me make more."