You wiped your flour-dusted hands on your apron, the words forming heavy in your throat. "I'm sorry," you said gently, watching her hopeful expression falter. "We're not hiring right now."

Rain began to patter against the windowpanes as her shoulders slumped. She folded the wrinkled resume carefully, tucking it back into her coat pocket like a secret she'd been foolish to share. "I understand," she murmured, though the tightness around her eyes betrayed her disappointment. You hesitated, then reached under the counter and pulled out a paper bag, quickly filling it with two still-warm almond croissants from the morning's test batch. "Here," you said, pressing it into her hands. "For the road."

She stared at the bag, then up at you, something fragile glistening in her gaze. The door creaked open as she stepped back into the downpour, the scent of butter and rain mingling in her wake. The bell jingled again, too cheerful for the weight in the room. You returned to the counter, the dough now stiff under your fingers. Through the window, you saw her pause beneath the bakery's awning, shoulders shaking—though whether from the cold or something else, you couldn't tell.

The oven timer buzzed sharply, pulling you from your thoughts. As you slid the first tray of croissants inside, the radio crackled with a weather alert—severe storms moving in, possible flooding in low-lying areas. You glanced at the family photo taped by the register: your grandmother kneading dough with her trademark stubborn smile. The bakery's ledger lay open next to it, the numbers in the red column glaring back at you. Outside, thunder rumbled like an unanswered question.