The line went dead before Hannah could respond.
She was still staring at the phone when it rang again.
And again.
And again.
The Morton's anniversary party. Canceled.
The hospital's monthly muffin order. Canceled.
The cookies for next week's PTA meeting. Canceled.
Each call clicked into place like another brick in the wall being built between her and everything familiar.
Her phone buzzed with a text. Sarah's name lit up the screen, and for one moment, Hannah felt a flutter of relief. Sarah would understand. Sarah had worked beside her for three years, had become more friend than employee?—
I think I need to take a step back. Nothing personal. Just until things settle down.
The words blurred as Hannah read them again. And again. Searching for something between the lines that would make this make sense.
Nothing personal.
But it was personal. All of it was personal.
Hannah stood in her doorway of the bakery, the morning sun suddenly too bright, too exposing. A car slowed as it passed, the driver's curious gaze burning into her skin.
The smell of bread—her grandmother's recipe, her family's legacy—wafted from the kitchen. But now it felt wrong. Mocking. A reminder of everything she was losing.
She turned with a jerk to go back inside and caught a display stand with her elbow. It toppled, sending a tray of fresh scones clattering to the floor.
Hannah stared at the scattered pastries, at the crumbs across her clean floor. Her hands shook as she knelt to clean up the mess.
Keep going, her grandmother's voice whispered in her head.Head high, hands steady.
But her hands weren't steady anymore. And the scones—the ones she'd shaped this morning, believing somehow that routine could save her—lay broken at her feet.
The bells above the door remained silent.
No one was coming to help pick up the pieces.
When the bell above Sugar& Spice's door did chime, Hannah startled. She looked up from wiping down the already-clean counter. Again.
A woman stood in the doorway. Hannah recognized her vaguely. One of the Hart kids. The only one who still lived in Crystal Lake. They'd never actually spoken.
The woman—Grace, Hannah's brain belatedly supplied—stepped inside with quiet purpose. Her eyes swept the empty bakery, taking in the lack of customers, the full display case, the desperation Hannah couldn't quite hide.
"Good morning," Hannah said, forcing brightness into her voice. "What can I get you?"
Grace approached the counter slowly, studying the pastries with genuine interest. "What's your favorite?"
The question caught Hannah off guard. "My... favorite?"
Grace's smile was small but real. "The one you'd eat yourself."
Hannah's throat tightened. When was the last time someone had asked her that? When was the last time anyone had cared about what she created, rather than who her father was?
"The raspberry Danish," she said quietly. "My grandmother's recipe. I add just a touch of lemon zest to the filling."
