You set the rolling pin down, flour puffing up in a little cloud as it hit the counter. Leaning forward slightly, you met the woman's nervous gaze. "Let's cut to it," you said, voice softer than you intended. "What mistake are you trying to outrun?"

The woman flinched, as if the words had physical weight. For a long moment, the only sound was the creak of the old wooden floorboards under her shifting feet. Then she swallowed hard, her fingers crumpling the edges of the resume slightly. "I—I was a nurse," she began, her voice gaining strength even as her hands trembled. "Three years ago. There was a patient... an overdose. I gave him the wrong dose of naloxone." Her throat worked around the words. "He didn't make it."

Rain began pattering against the windows, the sound filling the heavy silence. The woman—former nurse, you corrected yourself—wasn't crying, but her eyes shone with a sheen of moisture she refused to let fall. "Lost my license. Couldn't get a job washing dishes after that." She gave a humorless chuckle. "Turns out 'killer' doesn't look great on a resume."

Behind you, the oven timer beeped, startling you both. The scent of baking bread wrapped around the moment, incongruously warm and comforting. You studied her—the way her shoulders hunched defensively, the deep shadows under her eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights. The bakery's old nickname seemed to hum in the air between you. Second chances weren't just about the past; they were about who someone could become.