Page 29 of The Baker’s Shadow

“Yes.”

The lie sits between us like a third person in the room. I wrap both hands around the coffee mug, using the heat to keep my voice level. “So this is how it’s going to be. We just pretend it didn’t happen.”

“There’s nothing to pretend. You’re stable now. The baby is satisfied. My work here is done.”

“Your work.”

“Yes.” He moves to the sink, starts washing his hands like he can scrub away whatever passed between us. “I should go. You’ll be fine for a few days. When the hunger returns, I’ll come back and we can arrange regular feedings. Quick. Clinical. No need for...”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to.

“Right.” I take a sip of coffee. It tastes like ash. “Clinical.”

The bell above the front door chimes. We both freeze. It’s not even six yet. The bakery doesn’t open until seven.

“Kaia?” Mrs. Chen’s voice carries from the shop. “I saw the lights on. Thought I’d get my order in early.”

Malak moves before I can stop him. He’s through the back door and into the alley in three strides, silent as smoke. The door swings shut behind him with barely a whisper.

I smooth my dress. Put on my customer service smile. Walk out to the front where Mrs. Chen is already eyeing the display case like she’s planning a military campaign.

“Morning, Mrs. Chen.”

“You look different.” Her gaze is sharp. Assessing. “Healthier.”

“I slept well.”

“Mm.” She doesn’t believe me but she doesn’t push. “Two cinnamon rolls. And that nice young man who was helping you yesterday. Is he around?”

“He had to go.”

“Shame. He seemed useful.” She counts out exact change, slides it across the counter. “You should keep him.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It never is, dear.” She takes her bag of rolls, pauses at the door. “But sometimes the complicated things are the ones worth keeping.”

She leaves. The bell chimes again. The shop falls quiet.

I stand there behind the counter, alone, and press my palm against my stomach. The baby shifts. Not kicking. Just settling. Comfortable.

“It’s just us again,” I whisper.

Except it doesn’t feel like enough anymore.

I try to go back to normal. Mix dough. Shape loaves. Let the rhythm of kneading erase the memory of his hands. It almost works.

The first batch goes into the oven at seven thirty. When I pull it out an hour later, the loaves are perfect. Golden. The crust crackles when I tap it. But something is different. The smell is richer. Warmer. Like I baked summer sunshine and safety into the flour.

By eight, I have a line. By nine, I’m sold out of everything except the experimental batch I was planning to freeze.

“This is amazing,” the teenager with the nose ring tells me, her mouth full of sourdough. “I don’t know what you did different, but it tastes like my grandma’s kitchen used to smell. Before she died.”

An older man buying a baguette: “Felt brave enough to call my son. We haven’t spoken in two years. Ate your bread this morning and just... picked up the phone.”

A woman I don’t recognize. “I’ve been so tired lately. So worn down. But this.” She holds up a half-eaten cinnamon roll. “This made me feel safe. Like everything might actually be okay.”

I smile. Nod. Ring up their orders. But inside, something cold is spreading through my chest.