The first time she saw him, Mara was kneading dough in the dim light of the bakery’s early morning hours. The scent of rosemary and warm flour clung to the air, mingling with the distant hum of a guitar drifting through the open window. She paused, her hands still in the dough, and tilted her head toward the sound. It was a melody she’d never heard before, raw and unpolished, like a boy trying to remember a song his father used to play. She didn’t recognize the man who sat on the park bench outside, his fingers strumming the strings with careless precision, but she knew, somehow, that he wasn’t from here.
His name was Jace, and he’d arrived in town two days earlier, carrying a worn guitar case and a reputation for vanishing before anyone could ask questions. The locals whispered about him—how he’d played at the diner’s open mic night, then left without a word, how his eyes held the weight of something unspoken. Mara didn’t care about the rumors. She cared about the way his music made her pulse quicken, how it felt like a secret she wasn’t meant to hear.
She found him again the next morning, still sitting on the same bench, his guitar resting against his knee. The sun had just risen, casting long shadows across the pavement, and he looked up when she approached. His smile was slow, uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he should be there at all.
“You’re the baker,” he said, his voice low and rough, as if it hadn’t been used in a while.
She nodded, holding up the paper bag she’d filled with pastries. “I brought you something.”
He took it without a word, unwrapping a croissant with deliberate care. The buttery scent lingered between them as he took a bite. “This is good,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “You make everything taste like… home.”
Mara felt her cheeks warm. She hadn’t expected that. No one had ever called her food home before. “It’s just bread and butter,” she mumbled.
“It’s more than that,” he said, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow. The birds chirped louder, the breeze carried the scent of rain on the horizon, and the weight of his gaze made her heart stutter. She wanted to look away, but something in his expression held her still—something like longing, or maybe just loneliness.
They didn’t talk much after that. Jace would appear at odd hours, sometimes with a song, sometimes with silence. He’d sit on the bench, watching the world pass by, and Mara would bring him something to eat, never asking why he stayed. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a quiet rhythm that felt right, even when it didn’t make sense.
Then came the night of the storm. The sky turned an eerie shade of green, and the wind howled like a wounded animal. Mara was closing up the bakery when she heard the crash—the sound of something heavy hitting the pavement. She ran outside, her boots crunching over broken glass, and found Jace crouched in the doorway of the diner, his guitar case open, his hands trembling.
“It’s not safe out here,” she said, stepping closer. The air smelled like ozone and wet earth.
He looked up, his eyes wide. “I didn’t think it would come this fast.” His voice was barely audible over the wind.
Mara grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the bakery. “Come on.” They ducked inside just as the first raindrops hit the windows, the storm raging outside like a living thing. The lights flickered, and for a moment, they were alone in the dark, the sound of thunder echoing in their chests.
“You could’ve been hurt,” she said, her voice tight with worry.
He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “I wasn’t going to leave you out there.”
The words hung between them, heavy and unspoken. Mara wanted to argue, to tell him he didn’t have to stay, but the truth was, she didn’t want him to go either. The storm raged on, but in that moment, it felt like the world had stopped.
After the storm passed, things changed. Jace stayed in town, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He helped Mara rebuild the diner’s broken windows, his hands calloused from the work but his smile still easy. They spent evenings talking over coffee, their conversations stretching into the night, until the stars blinked above them like old friends.
But there was always something between them, a tension that neither of them could quite name. Mara wondered if it was fear—of getting too close, of losing what they had. Jace didn’t say much about his past, and she didn’t press him. Some things were better left unsaid.
Then came the day he left. He showed up at the bakery with a duffel bag, his expression grim. “I have to go,” he said, his voice steady but empty.
Mara’s heart sank. “Where?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I can’t stay here. Not like this.”
She wanted to stop him, to beg him to stay, but the words caught in her throat. She watched as he walked away, his figure disappearing into the morning light, and for the first time, she felt truly alone.
The town moved on, but Mara didn’t. She kept the bakery open, her days filled with the rhythm of kneading dough and the scent of cinnamon. She told herself it was okay, that she could live without him. But every evening, when the sun dipped below the horizon, she’d sit on the bench where he used to sit, listening for a song that never came.
Months passed. The seasons changed, and still, she waited. Then one day, a familiar melody drifted through the air—a song she hadn’t heard in years, but one she’d never forgotten. She turned, expecting to see him, and there he was, standing at the edge of the park, his guitar slung over his shoulder.
“I’m back,” he said, his voice soft but certain.
Mara’s breath caught. “Why?”
He stepped closer, his eyes searching hers. “Because I couldn’t stay away. I thought I was running from something, but really… I was running to you.”
The words settled between them like a promise. The wind carried the scent of rain again, but this time, it felt different—like a fresh start, not an ending. Mara smiled, her heart light for the first time in a long while.
And this time, she didn’t let him go.
