Myra
The silence was the worst part.
When the ovens were roaring and the front end was rocking with orders, I didn’t have to think. I just moved. I was a machine made of muscle and muscle memory, fueled by caffeine and the desperate need to keep the cookies from burning. But now, with the Sunday morning delivery to Segretto Star finally tucked away and the "Closed" sign turned to the street, the silence in the bakery felt heavy. It felt like the air before a thunderstorm—thick, expectant, and impossible to breathe.
I stood at the back prep table, mechanically wiping a surface that was already clean. My hands were steady, but inside, I was a jagged mess of glass.
Thirteen years.
I’d spent over a decade building a version of myself that didn't need a mother. I’d forged the Ice Queen out
