The steam wand hissed gently as she frothed the milk, the scent of Earl Grey and vanilla syrup threading through the air like ribbon. Iris leaned against the counter, watching the bouquet settle, the last few droplets trailing from the stems onto the white countertop in tiny, glistening stars.
The register clicked softly beneath Hazel’s fingers, a stuttering rhythm of receipts and screens and blinking error messages. She tapped again, waiting. Her eyes were fixed to the loading icon as it spun around in circles, taunting her.
Print end-of-day summary?
Yes.
Network error. Check connection.
She huffed, pressing the edge of her thumb into her temple, then tried again. Same result. The screen went grey and then blinked back to life, like it was thinking about cooperating but hadn’t quite decided yet.
Outside, the golden edge of afternoon had begun to dim. Shadows slipped across the floorboards, long and quiet, stretching in soft angles from the front window. The pastry case was nearly empty. Only a few scones remained, lonely on their trays. The coffee urn was drained, a sticky trail of syrup pooled beside the milk jugs, and the scent of burnt sugar still hung faintly in the air.
Hazel hadn’t had the heart to open a window. The wind off the ocean would’ve chilled the place too quickly, and anyway, she wasn’t ready to admit defeat. Not over a single ruined tray of cookies.
She glanced back over her shoulder, toward the oven. The door was now hanging ajar, the cooling rack still lined with blackened remains. They weresupposedto be brown butter pumpkin spice shortbread, but she’d gotten caught up talking to a sweet couple visiting from Connecticut, and by the time she’d noticed the timer going off, the smell had already turned bitter. She’d smiled through it, tossed the tray like it didn’t matter. But her hands had trembled under the weight of it, another small failure in a day that had asked too much and had given too little back.
Now, an hour later, the memory of it clung to her clothes, along with a sheen of sweat that hadn’t quite cooled. Her braid had given up long ago, hair slipping in soft waves around her face. A scrunchie dangled from one wrist like a forgotten to-do. She kept pushing strands behind her ear, only for them to fall forward again.
While she waited for the register to respond, Hazel glanced at the stack of empty to-go cups sitting just a few inches away. The disposable cardboard sleeves were stacked next to them, embossed with the Rise logo she’d paid a local student to design. For a moment, she let herself imagine it— that someone might keep one. Toss it in the back seat of their car, spot it again a week later, and think of her.
Maybe this was the start of something that stuck. Something that said:I’m here. I’m creating something. You can’t just forget that.
The screen blinked back to life, drawing her attention once more.
Network error. Check connection.
Hazel swore under her breath, just loud enough to feel the shape of it on her tongue.
She had flour under her nails and icing sugar on her shoulder. Her ankles ached from standing and the numbers in the register didn’t quite add up. There hadn’t been a single customer since that couple had stepped out onto the sidewalk outside, carrying a brown paper bag with two salted caramel cinnamon buns inside.
She hadn’t eaten all day, hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. She hadn’t sat down properly, either. Her stomach clenched, more from nerves than hunger.
The door pressed open, then, and Hazel looked up, startled. The air shifted, a touch of fall-laced breeze rustling the hair on her shoulders.
A woman stepped in and for a moment, Hazel wondered if she was lost. She didn’t look like the usual late-afternoon customer. She was tall and impossibly put together, with icy blue eyes and a high, slicked-back bun that gave her a look of effortless precision. She wore a long cream coat and boots with heels that clicked sharply against the floor as she stepped inside.
She paused just past the threshold, nose wrinkling slightly.
“Never a good sign when you walk into a bakery and it smells like something’s been burnt,” the woman said, voice as smooth as glass.
Hazel straightened slowly, her hand slipping from the edge of the counter. She brushed at her apron, though the flour had long since settled in.
“I— yeah. Overbaked a test batch earlier,” she said, voice light, wobbly around the edges of a smile. “Still working out the kinks.”
The woman’s gaze swept the space, cool and cursory. She didn’t linger on anything. Not the shelves, the soft lighting, the near-empty pastry case. It was just enough of a glance to take it all in and dismiss it.
“Hm,” she said, noncommittal. “I’d heard someone new was opening. Didn’t expect them to actually go through with it.”
Hazel blinked. “Sorry?”
“This spot,” the woman said, glancing toward the front window as though the history might be etched into the glass. “It never sticks. We’ve had bakeries, cafés, boutiques— and don’t get me wrong, they’ve all been lovely. But they’ve also all been gone within a year. Honestly, they sort of blur together after a while. Names don’t really stick when the doors close so fast.”
Hazel’s throat tightened. “Well… hopefully I can break the pattern.”
The woman looked back at her. “Hope can beveryexpensive.”
The words didn’t bite immediately, but they landed with a heaviness that sent a trickle of dread down the length of Hazel’s spine.
