Chapter 4: The Midnight Bakery
For three straight nights, we lived in a haze of cinnamon and butter. My kitchen, usually a place of quick sandwiches and cereal, looked like a tornado had hit a bakery. There was flour in the crevices of the refrigerator handle and icing drying on the backsplash.
I was the sous-chef, the dishwasher, and the heavy lifter. Ashley was the commander-in-chief. She watched the oven timer with the intensity of a hawk. We talked about everything and nothing—about her school projects, about the way the light looks in the park in the spring, and about the stories Hannah used to tell.
On Easter morning, the apartment smelled like a miracle. We packed 300 cookies into small pink boxes, tying each one with a bit of ribbon we’d found in a junk drawer.
At the shelter, the atmosphere was a mix of exhaustion and forced cheer. But when Ashley walked in, her arms laden with boxes, the energy shifted. She didn’t just drop the food off; she walked to every person, looked them in the eye, and said, “Happy Easter! These are from me and my family.”
I stood by the door, watching a grizzled man in a tattered coat take a cookie and weep. I watched Ashley hug a woman who was sobbing quietly in the corner, whispering, “It’s okay. You aren’t alone.”
I felt Hannah’s presence then—a phantom warmth at my side. I thought that this was the pinnacle of the story. I thought this was the “happily ever after” we had earned. I was wrong.
