You glanced at the old clock hanging above the doorway, its hands creeping toward 6:30 AM. The first batch of pastries needed to go in the oven soon, and the coffee hadn’t even started brewing yet. Wiping your flour-dusted hands on your apron, you offered the woman an apologetic smile. "I’m sorry," you said, nodding toward the kitchen behind you. "It’s our busy hour. Maybe come back later?"

The woman’s shoulders slumped slightly, but she didn’t argue. She tucked the resume into her coat pocket and gave a small, resigned nod. "I understand," she murmured, turning toward the door. As she pushed it open, a gust of wind sent a flurry of autumn leaves skittering across the worn wooden floor. For a moment, you hesitated, watching her silhouette disappear into the gray morning light. Then the timer on the oven beeped sharply, snapping you back to reality.

You hurried to slide the croissants onto the baking sheet, but your mind lingered on the woman’s hesitant expression. The bakery’s reputation wasn’t just about bread—it was about hope. The thought nagged at you as you worked, mixing batter and kneading dough, the rhythm of your movements failing to quiet the unease in your chest. Outside, the first drops of rain began to patter against the windowpanes, blurring the world beyond into muted colors.