She should put it back.
She should let it go.
But instead, Hannah sank onto one of the stools, setting the cup in front of her.
For just a moment, she let herself pretend.
Pretend it was last year, and Jake was here, sipping coffee as she finished the books, teasing her about how she always over-measured the sugar in her morning batch.
Pretend he was still hers.
That she had ever really been his.
Her fingers curled around the mug. Her eyes burned, and she blinked fast, furious at herself.
She needed to stop.
Needed to let go.
But the truth sat heavy in her hands.
Some things couldn't be erased.
Some things stayed.
Even when you tried to forget them.
Hannah stood behind the counter,kneading a fresh batch of dough. The repetitive motion was soothing, grounding her in a way nothing else could lately. The bakery was quiet—it always was this time of day.
A year ago, the lull between lunch and the after-school rush would have been a time to catch her breath before the doors burst open with laughter and tiny, sticky fingers reaching for cookies.
Now, the rush never came.
Hannah glanced at the clock.
3:30 PM.
The time school let out.
Her heart ached before she could stop it.
She turned back to the dough, working in silence. They wouldn't come. They hadn't for months.
But then?—
The faint sound of giggles carried through the bakery's front window.
Hannah looked up.
Outside, a group of children walked past, bundled in their jackets, their backpacks swinging at their sides.
Her chest tightened.
She knew them.
They used to crowd into Sugar & Spice, chattering about their day, spending crumpled dollar bills on warm cookies and cold milk.
A little girl—Emily Peterson—paused on the sidewalk. She pressed her small hands against the glass, her breath fogging up the window.
