The bakery was already busy that morning, filled with the familiar rhythm of clinking trays and the warm smell of fresh bread. I was behind the counter when a young woman stepped inside, hesitating near the door as if unsure she belonged there. She spoke softly, asking for the cheapest sandwich we had. I noticed how carefully she held herself, sleeves pulled low, eyes fixed on the menu rather than the people around her. There was a quiet urgency in her voice—not dramatic, just tired. Something about her presence made the room feel smaller, as if the noise had dimmed around her.
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