Should stop letting memories haunt her.
But she didn't.
Instead, she turned back to her grandmother's recipe box. These recipes had survived worse than broken hearts. They'd survived wars, recessions, changing times. They'd survive this too.
Because her grandmother had been right about one thing—they didn't bake for praise.
They baked for love.
They baked for the simple joy of creating something beautiful.
They baked because it was who they were, deep in their bones.
Hannah carefully closed the recipe box, wrapping Emily's cake one final time. The kitchen felt peaceful now, wrapped in the gentle quiet of evening light.
"The heart of this place isn't the building," she whispered to her grandmother's ghost. To all the ghosts that lived in these walls.
The copper wind chimes tinkled softly, almost like an answer.
Hannah didn't see the shadow pass by her window.
Didn't notice the faint smell of gasoline carried on the evening breeze.
Didn't realize this peaceful moment was the last one she'd have before everything changed.
But somewhere deep inside, in that place that still remembered how to trust, she felt it.
The calm before the storm.
CHAPTER 29
Hannah
Hannah's fingerstraced the worn edges of her grandmother's recipe box, moonlight spilling through Sugar & Spice's windows. The evening had settled into that perfect quiet she used to love—just her and the gentle hum of refrigerators, the faint ticking of the ancient wall clock, the whisper of paper as she flipped through decades of handwritten cards.
Each recipe told a story. Not just measurements and temperatures, but little notes in her grandmother's flowing script.Add extra nutmeg for Mrs. Wilson's Christmas cookies. The Harrison children love sprinkles on their birthday cupcakes. Double the vanilla when making this for weddings.
Her throat tightened. So many memories. So many connections woven through flour and sugar and trust.
She thought of the corporate letter, sitting on her desk upstairs, crisp white paper stark against the worn wood. She hadn't answered yet. Couldn't quite bring herself to sign away her grandmother's legacy, even though the logical part of her brain screamed that it was time. That the town had made their choice. That some things couldn't be saved.
The evening air shifted, carrying a hint of chill through the cracked kitchen window. Hannah wrapped her cardigan tighter, breathing in the lingering scent of the day's baking—cinnamon and vanilla and home.
Just home.
Not safety anymore. Not since Jake had shattered her ability to trust. Not since her father had proven that everything she believed in could be a lie.
Her fingers caught on a recipe card—the one for her father's favorite coffee cake. The one she'd made every Sunday when he came to go over the books. When he'd smiled and called her his good girl while systematically destroying people's lives.
The card slipped from her trembling fingers.
She forced herself to keep moving, to focus on closing up for the night. The familiar routine steadied her hands: wiping down counters, checking the ovens were off, counting the register.
But something felt wrong.
The air tasted different. Sharper. Almost metallic.
Hannah paused, recipe box still cradled in her arms. The evening shadows seemed darker somehow, pressing against the windows like they wanted to get in.
