The late afternoon sun lay across the bakery walls like a fading gold curtain when the knock came. It was steady, clear, and intentional—three firm taps that echoed through the quiet space. Elena had been leaning against the counter with her notepad open, reviewing the sales of the day. Her head jerked up at the knock, her thoughts suddenly interrupted.
She turned, brushing her palm lightly on her apron as she walked toward the door. Through the glass, she could see a man standing patiently outside—a man in his late forties or maybe early fifties, dressed in work overalls that were dotted with dried paint of various colors. His boots were slightly dusty, and in one hand he held a tape measure while the other rested casually by his side.
“That must be the painter,” Elena whispered.
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