Chapter Nine - The Girl at the Door

The Help Wanted sign had only been taped to the bakery window for two hours when the bell jingled.

Elias looked up from the dough he was shaping, expecting Mira—or maybe a curious customer chasing the ghost cookie rumor. Instead, a girl stood in the doorway, clutching the strap of her worn-out backpack like it might float away.

She looked about fifteen, sixteen maybe, still in her school uniform, the blazer slightly too big for her small frame. Her hair clung to her temples, damp from the sticky evening air, and she hovered uncertainly just inside the door, like the whole bakery might vanish if she stepped too far in.

Her gaze flicked to the display case — and then the smell hit her.

Fresh cookies. Warm bread. Lemon and butter curling together in the air like a lullaby you didn't realize you knew by heart.

Her stomach betrayed her instantly. A deep, unmistakable grrrooowwwl filled the quiet bakery.

Elias didn't mean to laugh. But the sound burst out before he could stop it — not a polite chuckle, but a real, from-the-belly laugh that startled even him.

The girl's face flamed red, her grip tightening on her backpack strap. She took half a step back toward the door, like she was ready to bolt.

"Hey, it's okay," Elias said, wiping flour-dusted hands on his apron. He gestured to the small wooden bench near the counter. "Sit down for a sec."

The girl hesitated, then shuffled toward the bench and perched awkwardly on the edge, knees pressed together like she was waiting for an exam.

Without thinking too hard, Elias reached into the display case and grabbed a yuzu cookie, setting it gently on a napkin in front of her. "Here. On the house."

Her eyes went huge. "Really?"

"Really." He gave a small shrug. "Hurry, eat it up"

She picked it up carefully, like it might shatter if she held it wrong. The second she took a bite, her whole body relaxed—shoulders dropping, her expression softening into something close to relief.

"It's…" she mumbled through the mouthful, "so good."

Elias' lips tugged into the faintest smile. "Glad you like it." He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching her. "So. I'm guessing you're here about the sign?"

She swallowed hard, nodding quickly. "Y-yeah! I saw it on my way home from school and—I really need a part-time job."

"Any experience working in bakeries?"

She shook her head so fast her hair bounced. "No, but I helped at my school festival food stall! We made yakisoba."

Elias snorted softly. "That's… not quite the same."

"I can learn!" she said, sitting up straighter. "I'm good at cleaning, and I'll work really hard, and I can—"

Her stomach growled again, louder this time.

Elias pressed a fist to his mouth to stop another laugh. "Do you even like baking?"

The question seemed to surprise her. "I… I don't know yet," she admitted. "But I like eating it. A lot."

Elias glanced at her hands — small, a bit calloused, not the hands of someone who's had an easy life. He wondered, briefly, what made her need this job so badly. School fees? Family trouble? Or just the quiet, simple hunger of wanting to feel useful somewhere?

She was awkward. Inexperienced. No doubt a walking disaster in a kitchen. Hiring her would absolutely slow him down, at least at first.

But the way she looked at the bakery — like it was a place worth belonging to — felt familiar. Elias knew that feeling. He'd had it himself, years ago, standing in his parents' kitchen, fingers in dough that stuck to his skin like a promise.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet. "Alright," he said, pushing off the counter. "Trial shift. Tomorrow night."

The girl shot to her feet so fast her backpack nearly tipped over. "Really? You mean it?"

"Don't be late."

She bowed so deeply she nearly hit the counter. "Thank you! I promise I'll work really, really hard!"

Her shoes squeaked on the floor as she practically ran out the door, her excitement trailing behind her like confetti.

Elias stood there for a long moment after she left, the bakery suddenly too quiet again.

He knew this was going to be a mess. But maybe, just maybe, it was the kind of mess this place needed.

He turned back to the kitchen, hands already reaching for flour and butter.

Tomorrow, he wouldn't be baking alone.