On my third day in Brynfield, I got an apprenticeship at a bakery in the old town.
The owner was Grace.
I woke up at 3:30 every single morning. Knead dough, let it rise, shape the loaves, bake them.
My hands were never free of new injuries, scalds from the oven, nicks from knives, raw rubbed spots from all the kneading.
Grace always said I picked things up faster than she ever did back when she was starting out.
As the days slipped by, the calluses on my palms grew thicker and thicker, and the chaos in my heart slowly settled into quiet.
I was sure Daniel was gone for good, wiped clean from my life forever.
But then, one evening a month later, I pulled open the bakery door to lock up for the night.
A man stood in the golden glow of the setting sun at the end of the alley.
It was D
