"Promise?"
"Promise."
I'd watched her walk through those doors, her yellow dress disappearing into the crowd of children. And I'd stood there on the sidewalk until the bell rang, just in case she changed her mind and came running back out.
She didn't.
I went to school.
And I was there at three o'clock. Just like I promised.
The guard coughs.
I flinch.
He doesn't look up from his phone.
I exhale slowly.
Keep thinking. Keep your mind moving.
Think about something else.
Nonna's kitchen.
The smell of garlic and tomatoes simmering on the stove. Flour dusting every surface. Nonna's hands, wrinkled and strong, kneading dough like she was punishing it for something.
"You have to feel it," she'd say. "The dough tells you when it's ready. You just have to listen."
I never understood what she meant. Not until years later, when I was sixteen and trying to recreate her bread recipe from memory. I'd kneaded and kneaded, frustrated and sweating, ready to throw the whole mess in the trash.
And then I felt it.
The moment the dough went from sticky and resistant to smooth and elastic. The moment it stopped fighting me and started cooperating.
The dough tells you when it's ready.
I'd cried. Standing alone in our kitchen at midnight, covered in flour, crying over bread.
Mama had found me like that. She hadn't asked questions. She'd just pulled up a chair and watched me shape the loaves, her presence steady and warm.
"She'd be proud of you," Mama had said.
"It's just bread."
"It's never just bread."
The guard shifts in his chair.
I hold my breath.
He stands up, stretches, and walks to the door. Opens it. Steps outside.
The door closes behind him.
I'm alone.
My heart pounds. This could be my chance. This could be?—
