She walked to the back of the shop and crouched in front of the lower shelf where her laptop sat plugged into the old black printer she and Juno used to create their makeshift labels for the boxes and bags. She opened the screen. It was already warm, still glowing from a half-finished menu update she hadn’t gotten around to posting online. With stiff fingers, she opened a blank document and typed without overthinking. Without softening. Without cheer.
Closed for the holidays.
That was it, no reopening date. Nosee you soon!orhappy holidays!Just those four plain words, typed in the same soft script she used for bakery orders and allergen disclaimers. They were words that might mean nothing to someone walking by. But to her, they felt like a quiet surrender. A hand lifted from the wheel.
The printer clattered to life, the sound harsh and sudden in the stillness of the kitchen. Hazel peeled the warm page from the tray and took it with her to the front, the paper trembling slightly between her fingers, though whether from cold or something deepershe couldn’t say. On her way, she dipped beneath the register and retrieved a roll of tape.
She moved to the windowed surface of the front door and pressed the paper against the glass from the inside, smoothing the tape at the edges into place with careful hands. Her breath fogged faintly on the pane as she leaned forward, one palm lingering there a beat too long, as if anchoring herself to the decision.
It was done.
She turned, then, taking in the bakery in full. The worn hardwood floors she and Malcolm had polished themselves that last week before opening. The chalkboard menu Juno had helped her re-letter three times until it looked just right. The glass case still faintly fogged from that morning’s batch of rolls. Iris’s weekly bouquet of fresh flowers next to the overflowing tip jar. It all looked exactly as it should. But for the first time, Hazel felt like a guest here, like someone walking through a memory.
Like she was already halfway gone.
She moved to the coat rack next, pulling her arms through the sleeves of her long wool coat with practiced ease. Then she reached for her scarf— the pastel rainbow one, soft and pilled and woven with uneven stripes. It had been a secret Santa gift from the Main Street exchange the night before. She hadn’t opened it right away, unsure what to expect, and had been surprised by how much it looked like something her grandmother might have bought. Cheerful, earnest, and bold without apology. When she’d found the note tucked into the wrapping paper, written in Iris’s looping hand—you can never have too much colour— Hazel had felt something strange twist in her chest. Not sadness, exactly. Something more dangerous. Something like hope. Like love and gratitude and above all else,belonging.
She wrapped the scarf around her neck now, once, then twice, pulling the ends close like armour. The bakery behind her was still warm, still faintly lit, but she didn’t look back.
Instead, she stepped out into the cold.
The air hit her full in the face— sharp and clean, the kind of cold that stole your breath before you realized it. The streets were quiet,the sidewalks coated in a thin sheet of salt-stained snow. Hazel turned toward home, head low, gloved hands tucked into her pockets.
She made it less than half a block when she heard it. Her name, called along with the wind.
“Hazel!”
She turned, startled.
It was Iris.
She was a few paces away, hurrying down the sidewalk in boots that squeaked with every step, a knitted hat pulled low over her ears and her coat half-buttoned, like she’d left in a rush. She smiled as she caught up, her cheeks bright, her curls frizzing beneath the brim of her hat.
“There you are,” Iris said, pulling Hazel into a hug without waiting for permission. “I thought that was you. I was just coming from Greyfin— Claire forgot her water bottle there,again—and I saw your scarf. It looks so good on you.”
Hazel let herself be held, though only briefly. She hugged back as best she could, but the motion was stiff, awkward. Her body remembered how, sure, but her heart had gone under again, pulled back down by the same old tide. She pulled away as soon as she could and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear to hide the tremble in her hand.
“I was just heading out,” Hazel said, voice quiet.
Iris glanced over her shoulder, toward the bakery.
“Oh,” she said. Her eyes caught on the note taped to the glass for just a second. She didn’t say anything, but Hazel saw it— the pause, the flicker, the shift of her weight. Iris recovered quickly, turning back with another bright smile. “Probably a good idea to take a break for the holidays. Are you heading to see your parents?”
The question hit harder than it should have.
Hazel blinked. Her mouth opened, a practiced response half-formed, but the truth of it rose too fast, too jagged, and her expression gave her away before she could hide it. Her chest tightened, her gaze darting for the nearest escape. She realized then— with a strange, spiraling guilt that joined the rest— that she had never told Iris. Not about her dad. Not about her mom. Not aboutanyof it.
“No,” Hazel said, voice soft, unable to lie.
Iris stilled, her expression shifting to one tinged with surprise. Not judgmental, exactly, just caught off guard. She opened her mouth again, maybe to ask or maybe to apologize, but whatever she’d been about to say drifted away before it left her lips.
“Well,” she said instead, her voice gentler now. “Claire and I are hosting Christmas Eve at the house, just something small. Claire’s family is all local but they’re spending the evening with us. They are also allveryquiet and extremely buttoned up and I could really use the company, if you wanted to stop by. My family’s all the way out in Oregon, so…“ She shrugged, smiling that easy, bright smile of hers. The one that typically, Hazel found infectious. “We would love to have you. Really.”
Hazel wanted to say yes. She wanted to be the kind of person who said yes.
But the weight in her chest wouldn’t let her. The grief pressed tighter now, folding in on itself with all the things she hadn’t told anyone. And this— this moment of kindness, of offering— only made the ache worse. Because she didn’t know how to reach for it, not right now.
She shook her head once, almost imperceptibly. “I don’t think I can,” she said. “But thank you.”
