The kitchen felt alive again. The faint hum of the refrigerator, the clinking of measuring cups, and the soft shuffle of slippers on the tiled floor blended into a quiet symphony of purpose. The scent of flour and vanilla already lingered faintly in the air.
Elena stood beside her mother, rolling up her sleeves as she glanced over the list she had written the night before. Her handwriting was neat, organized, and slightly smudged from the steam of her early morning tea.
“Alright,” she said, holding the paper between her fingers, “we’ll need fifteen cups of flour for the cream rolls, eight for the cinnamon buns, and ten for the meat pies. That should be enough to start the week.”
Mrs. Gregory nodded, her glasses sliding slightly down her nose. “Perfect. But don’t forget the sugar and yea
