My phone buzzed in my pocket as I stepped onto the sidewalk. Mike’s na flashes across the screen, and I quickly answered before the call goes to voicemail.
"Hey, Fiona," his voice cos through, warm and lively. "You ready to find the place?"
"Yeah," I say, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. "I hope I don’t get lost."
He chuckles. "Don’t worry, it’s pretty straightforward. You’re near the school, right?"
I glance around, taking in the quiet streets and low-rise buildings. "Yeah, I’m just outside."
"Okay, head down Main Street until you see the park. The bakery’s a few blocks past that—it’s called Mike’s Bakery. You can’t miss it."
"Got it," I say, trying to sound confident even though I’ve never been great with directions.
"And Fiona?"
"Yeah?"
"Don’t overthink it," he says, his tone softening. "You’ll do great. See you soon."
I hang up, feeling a small smile tug at the corners of my mouth.
The walk was longer than I expected, but the directions were easy enough to follow. By the ti I spot the bakery, my legs ached and the sun was high in the sky, but relief washed over when I saw the sign: Mike’s Bakery in big, bold letters.
The place is small but inviting, with big windows that let in plenty of light. The sll of fresh bread and pastries hits the second I step inside, and my stomach growls loudly enough that I hope no one heard.
"Fiona!" Mike’s voice pulls out of my thoughts.
He’s standing behind the counter, wearing a flour-dusted apron and a grin that makes him look even younger. "You made it!"
"Barely," I joked brushing a strand of hair out of my face.
"Well, welco to the bakery," he says, gesturing around. "Let show you around."
Mike lead through the small space, pointing out the ovens, the prep area, and the display case filled with colorful pastries. The atmosphere is warm, bustling but not overwhelming, and I can already tell this place has a personality of its own.
"So, here’s the deal," he says, stopping near the coffee machine, which gleams like sothing out of a luxury catalog. "I need soone who can handle the kitchen. Baking, prepping orders, making coffee—it’s all hands-on. Think you can manage?"
I nonodded ickly, even though my stomach twists with nerves. "I’ll do my best."
"Good. Pay’s hourly—$12 an hour to start. You’ll work mornings and weekends, mostly. Fair?"
"Fair," I replied, relief washing over .
"Alright, let’s get started," he says, grinning. "I’ll teach you the basics today so you’re ready for tomorrow."
He starts with the coffee machine, explaining the buttons and levers like it’s the control panel of a spaceship.
"This thing’s a beast," he says, patting the side of the machine. "Cost a fortune, but it’s worth it. Custors love it."
I don’t ask how he managed to afford it—it seems too personal—but I can’t help but wonder.
"Go ahead," he says, stepping back. "Make a latte."
I followed his instructions, but my hands were shaky, and I pressed the wrong button. The machine sputters, and steam bursts out with a loud hiss.
"Whoa!" Mike says, laughing. "Easy there. Let’s try that again."
##Next, he showed how to flip patties on the griddle. It looked simple enough, but when I tried, the edges burn almost imdiately.
"Uh, Fiona?" Mike says, eyeing the blackened patty.
"I’m sorry!" I blurt out, grabbing the spatula and trying to scrape it off the griddle.
"It’s fine," he says, chuckling. "You’ll get the hang of it. Just keep an eye on the heat."
I nonoddedmy cheeks burning as I toss the ruined patty into the trash.
By the ti we were done, I felt like I had learned more in one afternoon than I have in weeks.
"Not bad for your first day," Mike says, handing a croissant from the display case. "You’ll get better with practice."
"Thanks," I say, taking the croissant and trying not to let my embarrassnt show.
"See you tomorrow morning," he says, his grin as warm as the bakery itself.
As I step back out onto the street, the croissant still in my hand and the bakery’s comforting sll lingering in my mind, I felt sothing I haven’t felt in weeks: Hope
######
Nathan leaned back in his chair, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window of his office. The city stretched out before him, bustling and alive, but his mind was elsewhere. Fiona.
It had been weeks since she left him. Weeks of silence, no calls, no texts. He told himself it was for the best, that letting her go was the right thing to do,, she would co back to him eventually wouldn’t she? but he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Co in," he said, his voice steady.
The door opened, and a man stepped inside—a tall figure dressed in a plain black jacket and jeans. His posture was straight, his movents precise, and his expression neutral.
"Mr. Nathan," the man said, inclining his head respectfully.
Nathan nodded. "You have sothing for ?"
The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick envelope, placing it on Nathan’s desk.
"All the details you asked for," he said, his tone clipped and professional.
Nathan picked up the envelope, his fingers brushing against the seal. "Go on."
"She’s staying in a small apartnt on the east side of town," the man began, his eyes sharp and focused. "It’s modest but clean. She’s been keeping to herself—no visitors, no calls to family. She’s registered as a transfer student at Campbell University. Struggling with tuition fees, though. She’s behind on paynts."
Nathan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything.
"She recently t soone," the man continued. "A guy who owns a bakery near the school. Na’s Mike. He offered her a job, and she accepted. Seems like she’s trying to make ends et."
Nathan nodded, his expression unreadable as he opened the envelope. Inside were photographs—Fiona walking down the street, entering the bakery, sitting in a booth with Mike. There were notes, addresses, tistamps, everything he needed to know.
"She’s safe," the man added. "She’s keeping her head down, focused on school and work. No signs of trouble."
Nathan stared at the photographs, his grip on them tightening slightly.
"Good work," he said finally, setting the envelope down.
The man nodded. "Anything else?"
"No," Nathan said, dismissing him with a wave. "You can go."
The man inclined his head again before turning and leaving the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
Nathan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he stared at the photographs. Fiona looked different. There was sothing in her expression—determination, maybe, or exhaustion. She was trying, he could see that. But she was struggling.
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