"Too early," she says, burrowing deeper into my side.
I smile despite everything. Despite the smoke still hanging in the air outside, despite the knot of anxiety that lives permanently in my chest these days, and despite all of it, she makes me smile.
"I need to check on the bakery," I say quietly. "Make sure it's still standing."
She lifts her head and looks at me with sleep-soft eyes. "Do you want me to come with you?"
"Always," I say without hesitation.
We get dressed and head downstairs to find my mom already awake, sitting at the kitchen table with Maddie. They are coloring together, and the sight of it does something warm and painful to my chest.
"Morning," my mom says, looking up. "I made coffee."
"You’re a saint," Piper says, heading straight for the pot.
Maddie abandons her crayons and runs over to hug my legs. "Daddy, can we go home today?"
I crouch down to her level and brush a curl from her face. "I need to check on a few things first, bug. But hopefully soon."
"Can I come with you?"
I glance at my mom, who nods. "Of course. We’ll make it an adventure."
Twenty minutes later, we’re driving through Valentine in the early morning light. The streets are quiet, most people still at their evacuation shelters or checking on their own homes. Smoke still hangs in the air, but it's thinner now, less oppressive.
When we turn onto Main Street, my breath catches.
The town is intact. The Corner Diner still stands with its neon sign flickering. The bookshop windows are unbroken. The festival banners, though singed at the edges, still flutter in the breeze.
And then I see it.
Spice Spice Baby.
My bakery is in one piece, untouched. It’s exactly as I left it.
I pull into the parking lot and just sit there for a moment, staring at the building that has been my anchor for the past three years. The place where I poured all my grief and all my hope and all my determination to build something good for Maddie.
"It's okay," Piper says softly, reaching over to take my hand. "It's still here."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
We get out of the truck, and I unlock the front door with hands that shake slightly. The moment I step inside, I'm hit with the familiar smell of flour and vanilla, and butter. Everything is exactly where I left it, the prep tables, the mixers stand there waiting to be used and the rows of piping bags are hanging on their hooks.
And there, in the center of the workspace, sits the phoenix cake.
It’s perfect, it’s in once piece, untouched by the chaos that threatened to consume everything around it. It’s a symbol of what this town has been through and it survived, just like we did.
I walk over to it slowly, like it might disappear if I move too fast. When I reach it, I run my hand along the edge of the table and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
"Daddy, the cake is so pretty," Maddie says, tugging on my hand. "Can we eat it?"
I laugh, and it comes out shaky. "Not yet, bug, this one is for the festival."
"When is the festival?"
"Two days," I say. "If everything goes according to plan."
Piper is filming, her camera trained on the cake, then on me. I should probably tell her to stop, that this moment is too raw, too vulnerable. But I don't, because somehow, having her witness this feels right.
