You pushed off the wall, brushing flour from your apron as you met Lena's anxious gaze. "I’ll consider it," you said, watching the way her breath hitched at your words. "Come back tomorrow morning—same time—and we’ll talk properly." Her shoulders slumped, not with defeat, but with something like cautious hope. She nodded, clutching the resume to her chest as if it were a lifeline. "Thank you," she murmured, the words barely audible over the rustle of the wind. You watched her walk away, her figure shrinking against the backdrop of the waking city, until she turned a corner and disappeared.

Back inside, the bakery smelled of rising dough and sugar, the warmth a stark contrast to the chill outside. You traced the flour-dusted countertop absently, your mind churning. The ledger in the back room loomed large in your thoughts, its numbers a relentless reminder of the bakery’s precarious state. But then there was Lena’s voice, the way she’d said your grandmother saved her brother. You walked to the old photograph hanging near the register—your grandmother, stern-faced but with crinkles at the corners of her eyes, standing proudly beside a young man you didn’t recognize. His smile was bright, unrestrained. You wondered if that was Lena’s brother.

The day passed in a blur of kneading, baking, and serving customers, but your thoughts kept circling back to Lena. By closing time, your fingers ached, and the bakery was steeped in the golden light of sunset. You sank into a chair, staring at the ledger. The numbers hadn’t changed. Taking on another employee was a risk. But then, so was turning away someone who needed this place as much as it needed her.