You pushed off the wall and nodded toward the bakery door. "Come inside," you said. "Let’s see what you can do." Lena’s breath hitched, and she followed you in, her footsteps hesitant on the worn wooden floor. The warmth of the oven wrapped around you both as you led her to the worktable where the croissant dough still waited. You handed her a rolling pin, its smooth handle worn from years of use. "Show me how you’d finish these," you said, stepping back to observe.

Lena hesitated for only a second before rolling up her sleeves, revealing a faded tattoo on her wrist—a tiny, crooked heart. She dusted the table with flour, her movements deliberate, and began to work the dough. There was a quiet confidence in her hands, a rhythm that spoke of practice, if not perfection. She folded the butter into the dough with care, her brow furrowed in concentration. You watched as she shaped the croissants, her fingers deft despite their slight tremble. They weren’t perfect—some were lopsided, others too thick—but there was something earnest in her effort.

"Where’d you learn to do this?" you asked, leaning against the counter. Lena didn’t look up, her focus on the last croissant. "My brother taught me," she murmured. "After he started working here. He’d come home and show me what he’d learned. Said it was the first thing he ever felt proud of." Her voice wavered, and she blinked hard. The oven timer dinged, and you pulled out a tray of morning buns, their caramelized tops glistening. The scent of cinnamon and sugar filled the air.

Lena’s croissants went into the oven next, and you both stood in silence, watching through the glass as the dough began to puff and golden. The bakery was quiet save for the hum of the oven and the distant sound of the city outside. Lena wiped her hands on her jeans, leaving flour streaks behind. "I know they’re not great," she said softly. "But I’ll get better. I just... I need someone to give me a chance." The weight of her words hung between you, heavier than the ledger in the back room.