Lucy rolled her eyes and went back to the croissants. The dough was perfect—butter properly laminated, layers distinct and even. Her hands knew what to do without conscious thought. That was the thing about baking: it was meditative, rhythmic, safe. As long as she followed the recipe, she'd get the expected result.
Unlike everything else in life.
The bell over the door chimed. Lucy didn't look up—Mae could handle whoever it was. She was working on the final fold when she heard a familiar voice.
"There she is. My favorite niece, working herself to the bone as usual."
Lucy's hands stilled. She turned to find Uncle Walter standing in the doorway to the kitchen, holding a thermos of what was probably terrible coffee (he refused to drink what he called her "fancy bean water") and wearing his usual flannel shirt and corduroys.
"I'm your only niece," Lucy said, but she was smiling. She wiped flour off her hands and hugged him.
Walter Chen was sixty-two, retired from teaching high school English, and the only family Lucy had left in Timber Falls. He'd been her rock after Grandmother died—showing up at the bakery every morning for the first three months, sitting quietly in the corner with his newspaper, just being present. These days he still came by most mornings, though more to check on her than to help.
"Slow morning?" he asked, glancing toward the front where Mae was rearranging the display case.
"It's Wednesday. The calm before the lunch rush." Lucy gestured to the small table in the corner of the kitchen—her makeshift office, perpetually covered with invoices and order forms. "Coffee?"
"I have coffee." He held up his thermos.
"That's not coffee. That's battery acid."
"It keeps me regular."
"Uncle Walter, please."
He laughed and sat down, and Lucy poured herself a cup of the Ethiopian roast she'd been working with this month. She joined him at the table, grateful for the excuse to sit down. She'd been on her feet since 4:45 AM.
For a few minutes, they sat in comfortable silence. This was their routine—Walter reading theTimber Falls Gazetteon his phone, Lucy reviewing the day's orders. The kitchen hummed around them: the oven's steady heat, the mixer in the corner kneading bread dough, the soft classical music Lucy always played while she worked.
"You look tired," Walter said finally.
"I'm always tired."
"You look more tired than usual."
Lucy didn't argue. She was exhausted—bone-deep, soul-deep exhausted. Last night she'd gotten five hours of sleep, which was actually an improvement. Most nights she lay awake, her mind spinning through tomorrow's prep lists and next week's supply orders and the constantly nagging question of whether she was doing this right, whether Grandmother would be proud or disappointed or somewhere in between.
"I'm fine," Lucy said, which was what she always said.
Walter set down his phone. "Lucy. Look at me."
She did. Her uncle's face was kind but serious, lined with age and worry.
"Your grandmother didn't leave you this place so you could disappear into it," he said quietly. "She'd want you to have a life, Lulu. Not just a business."
The childhood nickname hit her harder than it should have. Lucy felt her throat tighten. She looked down at her coffee, watching steam rise from the dark surface.
"I have a life."
"Do you? When's the last time you went out with friends? Took a vacation? Went on a date?"
"I went out last month," Lucy said defensively. "Rei and I had drinks."
"Once in four weeks. That's not a social life, that's a parole violation."
Despite herself, Lucy laughed. But it came out watery, close to tears.
Walter reached across the table and covered her hand with his. His palm was warm, weathered, familiar.
