Myra
The bakery had undergone a final, quiet transformation. After the last of the "free treats" were handed out and the well-wishers had finally trickled into the cold February evening, Tony and I went to work. We pushed the display cases aside and cleared a space in the center of the shop.
We set a single table with a white linen cloth. I’d found the "good" silver in the back of Dot’s sideboard—pieces that hadn't seen the light of day in years—and Tony had brought in a dozen deep red roses that filled the room with a scent far sweeter than flour. With the overhead lights dimmed and dozens of flickering tea lights scattered across the counters, the bakery didn't look like a place of business anymore. It looked like a sacred sanctuary.
"They're ready," Tony whispered, adjusting the coll
