stayed late at The Finch Room.

Rain tapped the windows, softer than it had that day.

The last employee had gone home.

The display cases were empty except for one crooked lemon tart she had saved for herself.

She made tea in her favorite ceramic cup, the lipstick long gone, and sat beside her grandmother’s piano.

For a while, she did nothing.

Then she opened the cedar box she had brought from home and lifted out the ivory wrap.

The cashmere felt soft against her fingers.

Not innocent, not exactly.

But hers.

She slipped it over her shoulders.

In the window’s reflection, she saw a woman older than the wife in those hallway-camera stills.

There were fine lines near her eyes now.

A steadiness in her mouth.

Shoulders that had carried too much and learned, finally, what to set down.

She raised her teacup toward the reflection.

“To useful women,” she whispered.

Then she smiled, switched off the lights, and left the bakery glowing behind her like a promise no one else could steal.