Hazel nodded. Her fingers tightened around the mug.
“And your parents? Did they play a role in your love for baking?”
Hazel stiffened before she could stop herself.
It wasn’t a flinch exactly, but something subtler. A stilling. The kind of full-body hush that creeps in just before an old wound pulls tight beneath the skin. She felt it in her jaw first, the quiet grind of her back molars pressing down, then in her throat, where the words stalled out like they’d hit a locked door.
For a moment, she didn’t answer. Just stared past the rim of her mug to the windowsill, where condensation gathered like the breath of ghosts. She could feel his eyes on her— gentle, but curious. Professional, but prodding.
And maybe that was what made it worse.
Because it wasn’t just a question. It was a key.
And she wasn’t ready for the door it might unlock.
“My parents weren’t really around in that way,” she said, a few beats too late. “It was mostly just me and my grandmother.”
Eli’s pen hovered. His free hand lifted, nudging his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
Hazel took a breath and reached for the thread she always came back to. “She was… everything. Tough and generous and sharp as a tack. She believed in showing up… for people, for your work. Even when it’s hard.Especiallywhen it’s hard. I like to think I inherited a little bit of that.”
The bakery, for a moment, felt quiet in a different way. Less empty, more full. Like memory had taken a seat at the table too.
Eli’s pen scratched once more, jotting down the words Hazel had offered to him.
“Anyway, that’s where Rise came from. It’s named for her, not just the dough. She believed we all rise, if we have enough care and time. And that we should allmakethe time to ensure it happens.”
“That is a great quote,” he admitted, setting his pen down.
She laughed, soft and startled, and leaned back in her chair. Her heart still jittered, but it no longer felt like it might tip her over. Maybe this was okay. Maybe telling the story could help her figure out where it was going.
It was a Thursday morning and the inside of Rise was warm and alive. The air hummed with a soft undercurrent of activity— spoons tapping ceramic, a quiet laugh from the two older women who always claimed the window seat at this time of day. Chairs scraped gently against the floor as another regular slipped out of their coat, unwinding a scarf. The heat from the ovens had fogged the window entirely, curling the edges of the glass in a soft white glow that made the entire bakery feel wrapped in its own little snow globe.
And behind the counter, Juno Callahan was entirely, unequivocally in her element.
Juno had been the one interviewee from the nearby college who had stuck out in Hazel’s mind. Bright, eager, maybe a little scattered, but in a way that had felt authentic. She’d talked fast, asked smart questions, and left Hazel with the quiet suspicion that if shedidbring her on, she’d learn as much from Juno as Juno might learn from her.
Juno worked in a swift rhythm that Hazel could hardly keep up with— chatting with one customer, pulling a shot of espresso for another, wiping down the drip tray while passing a muffin to a third. Her bright and curling auburn hair was pulled back from her face, trapped in a hot pink claw clip that seemed to be holding on for dear life. But even still, nothing was frantic, everything flowed. Her laughter was light, her energy constant, and the playlist she’d made for the bakery, something indie folk with just a touch of whimsy, curled up into the air like steam.
“Honestly, you should try the chai loaf next time,” Juno said, her voice bright as she flashed a smile at the woman standing at the register.
Hazel, peeking through the pass, blinked in recognition. Leigh. Her cheeks were flushed, her dark hair pulled into a twist, a knit scarf wrapped high around her neck. She was smiling as Juno handed her a stamped paper bag and moved to the espresso machine to tend to her drink.
Hazel had been in the kitchen since well before sunrise, coaxing the gingerbread loaves into the perfect rise, watching over a tray of cranberry brie hand pies with careful eyes. Her sleeves were dusted with flour, the hem of her royal blue sweater rolled at her forearms, the scent of clove and molasses soaked into the fabric. She’d only just pulled a second round of cinnamon coffee cake muffins from the oven when the bell above the door chimed again.
She glanced up just in time to catch Malcolm stepping through the threshold, his frame unfolding from the cold like it was something he could finally set down. His coat was dusted with snow, as was the beanie tucked carefully over his head. He unwound his scarf as he entered and nodded toward Juno at the counter, who waved back and started prepping his usual drink without him having to say a word.
Hazel shook her head with quiet amusement. She had barely known how to steam milk on her first few weeks open; she’d had to watch hours of YouTube videos just to figure out the giant, imposing machine. But Juno? She made it look effortless, as easy as breathing.
A few moments later, as Hazel wiped down her work surface and adjusted the parchment beneath a cooling rack, she heard the soft thump of boots approach the kitchen. Malcolm leaned against one side of the archway, his phone angled in one hand.
“You see this?” he asked, eyes lit with something half-curious, half-impressed. He flipped the phone so she could see the screen.
It was Rise’s Instagram page. The one Juno had started just a few days earlier.
Only, it wasn’t just a page.
It was a gallery. A mosaic of rich, moody photos— fresh-pulled pastries under morning light, layered drinks in Malcolm’s ceramic mugs, candids of regulars tucked into corners. Every post was captioned with warmth and wit, a kind of offhand charm Hazel had never been able to fake. She’d always assumed people didn’t care that much about captions. But these were… alive.
