You wiped your hands on your apron and gave the woman a warm smile. "Come in," you said, gesturing toward the small table by the window. "Let's talk over something sweet."

She hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside, her shoulders relaxing slightly as the warmth of the bakery enveloped her. You moved to the display case and selected a still-warm pain au chocolat, its flaky layers glistening with butter. Placing it on a plate, you added a cup of steaming coffee—black, just how you took yours—and carried both to the table.

"Thank you," she murmured, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the pastry. She took a small bite, and for a second, her face softened, the tension melting away. "It's... it's really good."

You sat across from her, studying the way her eyes flickered with something like hope. "So," you began, "tell me about yourself."

Her name was Mara, you learned. She’d been a pastry chef before—a good one—but a series of bad choices and worse luck had left her without a job or references. She spoke haltingly, as if each word cost her something, but there was a quiet determination in her voice when she talked about baking. The way her hands moved as she described her favorite recipes—a flick of the wrist for folding, a precise cut for laminating—betrayed her skill.

Outside, the rain began to patter against the windows, the sound a gentle counterpoint to the hum of the ovens. The bakery felt quieter somehow, like the world had narrowed to just this moment, this conversation. Mara’s resume lay between you, creased and smudged, but her eyes held a question you’d seen before: the hope for a fresh start.