Page 5 of The Baker’s Shadow

God, I want him to come back.

But that’s stupid. Whatever happened last night was a fluke. Monsters don’t come back for widows who smell like yeast and cry into their dough. I need to forget about him.

I check the clock again. 6:45. Time to open.

I straighten my apron, tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and move to the door. The morning light’s just starting to filter through the window, casting everything in that soft pre-dawn glow. Through the glass, the street’s still mostly empty. A few early risers. The usual quiet before the rush.

By the time I flip the deadbolt and turn the Closed sign to Open, the scent has already found the street.

I barely have the door unlocked when the first customer appears. A woman in a sharp business suit, who usually marches past my window with a branded cup from The Gilded Crumb, stops dead on the pavement. I watch through the glass as her eyes slide shut. She inhales deeply, her shoulders dropping, before turning toward my door like a sleepwalker.

“Good morning,” I say, moving behind the counter, with my best customer service expression on my face.

“Two croissants.” Her eyes look a little glazed. “No, three. And one of the cinnamon rolls. Actually, make it two.”

I’m still tapping the order into the portable device when three construction workers push through the door. They look hungry. Focused. One already has his wallet out.

The woman taps her card against the reader, grabs the brown bag I’ve barely finished packing, and walks out without a word.

“I’ll take four of those round loaves,” the first construction worker says.

“Which ones?” I ask, but he’s not even looking at me. His eyes are locked on the display case like he’s in a trance.

“All of them. Any of them. Doesn’t matter.”

The second worker leans over the counter. “You got more croissants?”

“In the back,” I say. “Let me just⁠—”

“I’ll wait.”

The third one points at the cinnamon rolls. “How many you got left?”

I look at the tray and count them quickly in twos. “Six.”

“I’ll take them.”

“All of them?” I have never sold this much so quickly. Is this really happening?

“Yeah.” The third worker is already pulling out cash.

Whatever is going on, I’m not about to complain. After today, I’ll be able to make a payment to the bank which will stop them from harassing me. Hot tears prick at my eyes and I blink them back.

The bell chimes again. The woman in the business suit is back, pointing at the display case. “And two of those berry tarts.”

“You want those too?” I ask, reaching for the bakery tissue.

She nods, distracted, eyes still fixed on the pastries.

I’m wrapping, bagging, ringing up as fast as I can. The bell keeps chiming.

More people push through. A teenager with pointed ears barely hidden under a

beanie. Mrs. Chen from the hardware store, her husband trailing behind with

his usual faint green tint to his skin.

I catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the display case glass as I lean