Questions She Cannot Ask
The refrigerator’s gentle hum, steady as a heartbeat, filled the quiet bakery, mingling with the soft tick of the cooling ovens. Their waning heat pulsed faintly against Emilia’s legs as she leaned back on the counter. For the first time since dawn, the world around her was still. No clatter of trays, no customers calling out orders, no more hands reaching across the counter for warm pastries. Just silence—fragile, calming, and entirely undeserved.
Grateful for the moment, Emilia wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron, her breath unsteady. All morning, every time the bell above the bakery door jingled, her heart had lurched as if caught in a painful fist. She had imagined—no, feared—that it was him. The absurdity of that fear nearly made her laugh. Adrian Cros
