Elena sat beside her mother on the old wooden chair, still on the clothes she wore to the bakery that morning, her hair loosely tied back. The aroma of curry sauce and rice lingered from the kitchen.
Mrs. Gregory stood up and got a plate and served her daughter. She wiped her hands and glanced softly at her daughter. “Elena,” she began, breaking the calm silence, “have you heard from Mr. Andre lately?”
Elena looked up from the table where she had been recording the bakery’s daily sales, her pen pausing mid-stroke. “No, Mom,” she said quietly, trying to mask the uncertainty in her voice. “I haven’t heard from him since the last time. I don’t even have an idea of when he’ll be back. Maybe by tomorrow—maybe not. Everything feels uncertain.”
Her mother nodded slowly, eyes thoughtful. “Hmm,”
