The morning sun cast a golden glow through the frosted windows of the small bakery, illuminating the dusting of flour that always seemed to linger in the air. You stood behind the counter, rolling out dough for the day's first batch of croissants, the familiar rhythm of your hands working the dough bringing a quiet comfort. The scent of yeast and sugar wrapped around you like an old friend. The bakery had been in your family for generations, but this year felt different. The shop bell jingled, and you looked up to see a woman hesitating in the doorway, her coat frayed at the edges, eyes darting around the room as if expecting to be turned away. She clutched a worn-out resume in her hands. "I heard..." she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "that this place gives people second chances."

You paused, flour dusting your fingertips, and studied her. The bakery had earned its nickname—Bakery of Second Chances—years ago when your grandmother started hiring folks who couldn’t find work elsewhere: the ex-convicts, the down-on-their-luck, the ones society had written off. But business had been slow lately, and the rent was due soon. Taking on another employee was a risk. The woman’s knuckles whitened around the paper. Outside, the wind rattled the awning, carrying the faint scent of rain. The choice hung heavy in the air.