You wiped your hands on your apron, leaving behind ghostly streaks of flour as you stepped forward. The woman flinched slightly when you reached out, but relaxed when you simply took the resume with a nod. 'I’ll look this over after the morning rush,' you said, noticing how her shoulders slumped with relief. She opened her mouth as if to say more, then closed it and backed toward the door.

Just as the bell jingled again, you called out, 'Wait—what’s your name?' She turned, the morning light catching the silver streaks in her dark hair. 'Mira,' she murmured. You scribbled the bakery’s number on a napkin and handed it to her. 'Call us tomorrow, Mira.' The door clicked shut behind her, leaving you alone with the hum of the oven and the weight of the decision ahead.

The morning rush came and went in a blur of buttery pastries and steaming coffee. Between customers, you unfolded Mira’s resume. The paper was creased, the ink slightly smudged in places. Her work history was patchy—a few months here, a few there—with gaps that spoke of struggles left unspoken. But at the bottom, in careful handwriting, she’d added: 'I learn fast. I won’t let you down.'

As you slid a tray of golden-brown croissants into the display case, the shop phone rang. It was Mrs. Calloway, the landlord, her voice sharp as she reminded you about the overdue rent. You clenched your jaw, staring at the fading 'Help Wanted' sign in the window. The bakery had always been more than a business—it was a promise. But promises didn’t pay bills.