The chipped Formica felt cool under Leo’s palms. He kneaded, pushed, folded—each motion a futile attempt to work out the knot in his chest. Rye dough. It smelled like…everything. Like his grandmother’s kitchen, like Sundays, like a life he couldn’t reclaim. He glanced at the storefront window, smudged with flour dust. Rain streaked the glass, blurring the early morning street. Not many folks ventured out in weather like this. Good.
He needed the quiet.
“Quite the storm brewing, huh?”
Leo jumped, nearly punching the dough. He whirled around. A man stood just inside the doorway, shaking water from a ridiculous tweed hat. The man’s face, framed by silvering curls, held a sadness that seemed to settle in the small bakery like another layer of humidity.
“Didn’t see you there.” Leo scrubbed at his hands with a flour-dusted towel.
“Wouldn’t blame you. I specialize in things that blend into the background.” The man hung his soaked coat on a peg by the door, water dripping onto the worn wooden floor. “Dr. Alistair Finch. Though most just call me Finch.”
“Leo. I own the place.” He gestured vaguely around the tiny shop. “Need something?”
“Actually, I was hoping you might have…a loaf of sourdough. Properly fermented, of course. Not that pre-packaged stuff.” Finch’s gaze swept over the display case, pausing on a particularly sad-looking croissant.
Leo bristled. “Everything here is made from scratch. Every single day.”
“Good.” Finch smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I appreciate dedication.” He moved closer to the counter, and Leo caught a whiff of something earthy, something that reminded him of damp soil and hidden things.
“It’s… a process.” Leo pulled a still-warm sourdough from the cooling rack. The crust crackled faintly.
“Aren’t all the best things?” Finch took the loaf, turning it over in his hands, examining the scoring. “You put a lot of yourself into this, don’t you?”
Leo’s hands tightened on the counter. The question felt like a probe. “It’s just bread.”
“Is it?” Finch raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I study plants. I can tell when something’s…struggling. This bread isn’t just flour and water, Leo. It’s…tension. And a surprising amount of sweetness trying to break through.”
Leo avoided Finch’s gaze. The man saw *too* much. “Look, I just bake. I don’t…analyze.”
“A pity.” Finch pulled out a worn leather wallet, its stitching coming undone. “I collect rare orchids. Their resilience fascinates me.” He counted out bills, carefully smoothing each one. “Lost my collection, you know. In the fire.”
The words hit Leo like a physical blow. He stared at Finch, seeing a mirror of his own quiet devastation. Five years ago, a drunk driver. A single, irreversible moment. He hadn’t spoken about it to anyone.
“I’m sorry,” he finally managed. The words felt inadequate, hollow.
“Water under the bridge.” Finch’s lips quirked, but his eyes remained distant. “Though I still smell smoke sometimes.” He slid the money across the counter. “I have a greenhouse a few miles out of town. If you ever need a quiet place to escape, you’re welcome to visit.”
Leo hesitated. He hadn’t let anyone close in years. Vulnerability felt like a weakness he couldn’t afford. But something in Finch’s weary gaze, something that mirrored the ache in his own chest, chipped away at his defenses.
“Maybe,” he said, surprised at the sound of the word.
Finch nodded, a flicker of something—hope, perhaps—crossing his face. He turned to leave, then paused at the door.
“The rain has stopped,” he said, glancing up at the brightening sky. “Sometimes, after a storm, the most unexpected things bloom.”
He was gone. Leo stood behind the counter, the scent of sourdough filling the small bakery. He looked at the rain-streaked window, no longer seeing blurred lines, but a fragile, tentative possibility. He reached for another lump of rye dough, and this time, the knot in his chest didn’t feel quite so tight.
