Anthony
The clock over the proofing station read 8:15 PM. In the silence of the night, the bakery felt less like a business and more like a sanctuary—or a trap. The only sounds were the low hum of the industrial refrigerators and the rhythmic, heavy thwack of me throwing a double batch of sourdough onto the flour-dusted stainless steel table.
The ovens were already roaring, pushing the temperature in the kitchen into the eighties. I’d ditched my apron and my shirt an hour ago, my skin slick with sweat as I worked the dough. I needed the physical exertion to drown out the image of Myra’s face from earlier—the way she looked when she’d jabbed her finger into my chest.
Then I heard the back door click.
I didn't have to turn around. I knew the cadence of her step, even when she was trying
