Jake.
"You're not alone," he murmured, voice rough with something she couldn't name. "Look."
She did.
And saw them.
Not just Jake's fire crew, who she'd expected. But them.
The town.
The people who had once whispered behind her back, crossed the street to avoid her, turned their backs when she needed them most.
They were here.
Tommy Mercer stood at the edge of the crowd, a box of cleaning rags clutched in his small hands. He shifted on his toes, a familiar nervous bounce that pulled at something deep in her chest. His mother stood behind him, hands firm on his shoulders, but her eyes—God, her eyes.
Not wary.
Not resentful.
Soft.
Mr. Wilson, the man who'd once canceled his orders overnight, now held lumber under his arm, his weathered hands already measuring, already rebuilding.
"The display cases," he said gruffly. "I can make 'em better than before."
Sarah—Sarah, who had walked away from her without a word—stepped out from the rubble, her hair tied back, soot smudged across her face.
She hesitated. Then lifted her chin.
"The kitchen equipment," she said. Not an apology. But an offering. "Some of it can be salvaged. If you want to try."
Hannah's throat burned. Her chest ached.
One by one, they stepped forward.
Billy Morton and his father, arms full of supplies.
"Mom says the grocery will handle your ingredients when you're ready to reopen," Billy said, voice too bright, too eager. "Whatever you need."
Mrs. Peterson, wringing her hands but standing firm. Showing up.
"The Founder's Day committee wants you back," she said quietly. "It's not the same without your cinnamon rolls."
Her hands trembled at her sides.
This wasn't just a cleanup.
This wasn't just rebuilding a business.
This was them, standing in the ashes with her.
This was an apology.
For doubting her.
For abandoning her.
