You’re elbow-deep in dough, the familiar rhythm of kneading grounding you. Flour dusts your forearms, your apron, the scuffed toes of your shoes.

A customer shuffles in. You don’t look up yet—just listen to the soft scuff of shoes on the worn tile floor. They don’t say anything.

Not unusual. Most people here know you don’t talk back.

When you finally wipe your hands and turn, there’s nobody at the counter. Just a single long-stemmed red rose lying on the glass display case, its petals dark as spilled wine.

The bell chimes again. The door swings shut.