Chapter 25 Hannah
Hannah
The morning rush had long since passed—not that it had really been a rush. Sugar & Spice wasn't the lively, bustling place it had once been. Customers still hesitated before stepping inside, some lingering near the windows before ultimately walking away.
Hannah had gotten used to pretending not to notice.
She kept herself busy, wiping down the counter for the third time, rearranging the already-perfectly stacked napkins, checking the inventory list for the next day. She told herself she didn't care. That if people didn't want to come in, then screw them.
But that wasn't true. Not really.
Because this place was her grandmother's. Because she had built a life here. Because she still remembered the regulars' orders by heart, even if they no longer walked through the door.
The bell above the door chimed, and Hannah looked up, bracing herself.
It wasn't a tourist.
It was Eleanor Matthews.
Hannah's breath caught.
She had been one of the bakery's first loyal customers after Hannah took over, always offering warm smiles and gentle encouragement. And then, after the news broke, she had disappeared like the rest of them.
But now, here she was, standing just inside the doorway, clutching her purse strap like she wasn't sure she should have come.
Hannah forced a smile, something fragile and hopeful curling in her chest. "Mrs. Matthews."
Eleanor nodded once, approaching the counter. "Good morning, dear."
The words felt normal. Like they always had before.
Hannah's fingers curled slightly against the counter. Careful. Don't get ahead of yourself.
"The usual?" she asked, already reaching for an apple Danish.
Eleanor hummed in confirmation. "Yes, please."
Hannah wrapped the warm pastry with familiar hands, keeping her expression neutral. She wouldn't react. Wouldn't expect—
She grabbed for a plain paper bag.
"Actually, dear—"
Hannah's heart thudded.
She lifted her gaze slowly, afraid to move too fast. Afraid to shatter the moment.
Eleanor's fingers tapped lightly on the counter. "The usual bag is fine."
The usual bag.
Not the plain one.
Hannah couldn't breathe.
Her hands moved on autopilot, tucking the pastry into one of Sugar & Spice's signature brown bags, the logo printed proudly on the front. Not something to be hidden. Not something to be ashamed of.
She set it on the counter between them, but Eleanor didn't take it right away. Instead, she looked at Hannah, her gaze softer than it had been in a long, long time.
"I've been coming here for years." Her voice was quiet but firm. "And I think I forgot that for a while."
Hannah swallowed hard. "I—"
Eleanor's lips twitched. "Don't make a fuss about it now, girl."
A breathy, half-hysterical laugh caught in Hannah's throat. She shook her head, pressing her lips together, nodding.
She wouldn't make a fuss.
She would just remember this moment.
Eleanor placed exact change on the counter, picked up her bag, and turned to leave. But before she reached the door, she glanced back.
"One more thing."
Hannah looked up quickly, her chest aching, her fingers still gripping the counter.
Eleanor tilted her chin slightly toward the window. "Tell that fireman of yours to stop pretending he's not watching from across the street."
Hannah's breath caught.
Her gaze flickered past Eleanor, to the sidewalk outside.
And there was Jake.
Leaning against the lamppost again, arms crossed, trying—and failing—to look like he wasn't holding his breath along with her.
Hannah turned back to Eleanor, her heart hammering. "He's not my—he's just—"
Eleanor snorted, shaking her head. "Oh, honey." A knowing smile tugged at her lips. "You can tell yourself that all you want."
And with that, she walked out.
Hannah exhaled slowly, rubbing her tired eyes as she stared at the open ledger in front of her. Numbers swam together, blurring under the dim light of the single lamp she had left on.
The rest of Sugar & Spice was dark, the chairs stacked on tables, the display cases wiped down, the scent of cinnamon and sugar lingering in the air like a ghost of the day.
She should have gone home. Should have climbed upstairs, showered off the exhaustion, and collapsed into bed.
Instead, she was still here, staring at the past month's income, knowing it wasn't enough.
Not yet.
With a heavy sigh, she reached for the pile of old order forms she had been sorting earlier. Most were ones she didn't have the heart to throw away—customer requests from people who no longer came.
Mrs. Foster's weekly scones for her bridge club.
The elementary school's birthday cupcakes for the student of the month.
The Harrison family's favorite cookies.
Hannah's fingers trembled as she traced the ink on the last one.
She shouldn't have kept these. It was masochistic, holding onto proof of what she had lost.
But something stopped her from tossing them in the trash.
She ran her hand over the forms before sliding them into a drawer—out of sight, but not gone.
She leaned back in her chair, rubbing at the ache in her neck. Her gaze drifted across the kitchen, half-lidded with exhaustion. Everything looked the same.
But nothing was.
Her eyes landed on one of the open cabinets.
Jake's coffee cup.
She stilled.
It sat on the second shelf—pushed toward the back, like she had tried to forget it was there. A plain, ceramic thing. He had used it every morning, his favorite for no reason at all.
Her chest ached.
She should throw it out. Get rid of it.
But she didn't.
Instead, she pushed back from the desk and crossed the room. Without thinking, she reached for it, cradling it between her hands.
The warmth of his skin had long faded from it, but it still felt like him.
A lump formed in her throat.
She should put it back.
She should let it go.
But instead, Hannah sank onto one of the stools, setting the cup in front of her.
For just a moment, she let herself pretend.
Pretend it was last year, and Jake was here, sipping coffee as she finished the books, teasing her about how she always over-measured the sugar in her morning batch.
Pretend he was still hers.
That she had ever really been his.
Her fingers curled around the mug. Her eyes burned, and she blinked fast, furious at herself.
She needed to stop.
Needed to let go.
But the truth sat heavy in her hands.
Some things couldn't be erased.
Some things stayed.
Even when you tried to forget them.
Hannah stood behind the counter, kneading a fresh batch of dough. The repetitive motion was soothing, grounding her in a way nothing else could lately. The bakery was quiet—it always was this time of day.
A year ago, the lull between lunch and the after-school rush would have been a time to catch her breath before the doors burst open with laughter and tiny, sticky fingers reaching for cookies.
Now, the rush never came.
Hannah glanced at the clock.
3:30 PM.
The time school let out.
Her heart ached before she could stop it.
She turned back to the dough, working in silence. They wouldn't come. They hadn't for months.
But then—
The faint sound of giggles carried through the bakery's front window.
Hannah looked up.
Outside, a group of children walked past, bundled in their jackets, their backpacks swinging at their sides.
Her chest tightened.
She knew them.
They used to crowd into Sugar & Spice, chattering about their day, spending crumpled dollar bills on warm cookies and cold milk.
A little girl—Emily Peterson—paused on the sidewalk. She pressed her small hands against the glass, her breath fogging up the window.
Her mouth moved, and even though Hannah couldn't hear her, she knew what she was saying.
Can we get cookies?
Emily turned to her mother, eyes wide with hope.
Hannah held her breath.
She already knew what would happen.
And sure enough, Mrs. Peterson hesitated, her lips pressing into a tight line before she gently pulled her daughter back.
Not here.
Hannah's stomach twisted as she watched them walk away.
It shouldn't hurt anymore.
But God, it did.
She turned back to the dough, pressing her palms into it harder than necessary.
And then—
Something shifted. One mother had stopped.
Not Emily's. But another. Lisa Connors.
Her son, Mikey, was looking at the window too, bouncing on his heels. Hannah saw the moment Lisa almost pulled him away—almost followed the script of every other parent who had walked this same street for months.
But she hesitated. Then, slowly, carefully—she let let Mikey tug her toward Hannah's bakery. Hannah's breath caught in her throat.
She swallowed hard, ignoring the tightness in her chest.
It was small. But it was something.
The bell chimed.
Hannah forced herself to breathe, to keep her movements steady as she wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron.
Mikey bounced on his toes near the counter, his eyes wide as he took in the display case. Lisa stood just behind him, her hand still on his shoulder, like she wasn't quite sure they should be there.
"Hi, Mrs. Connors." Hannah's voice came out softer than she intended. "Mikey."
"Hi, Miss Hannah!" Mikey pressed his face against the glass, exactly like he used to. "Do you still have the chocolate chip ones? The big ones?"
Hannah's throat tightened. Of course she still had them. She'd kept making them every day, even when no children came. It had been stubborn and foolish and Hannah didn't regret it for a moment now.
"Fresh out of the oven about an hour ago." She reached for the tongs, hesitating. "Would you like one?"
Mikey looked up at his mother, hopeful. "Can I, Mom? Please?"
Lisa's fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder. For a moment, Hannah thought she might change her mind—might remember all the reasons the town had decided Sugar & Spice wasn't safe anymore.
But then Lisa nodded. Once. Sharp. "One cookie."
Hannah's hands trembled slightly as she lifted the biggest cookie from the tray. She slipped it into a paper bag, the familiar motion carrying the weight of everything that had changed.
Mikey took the bag with both hands, already pulling out the cookie. "Thanks, Miss Hannah!" He took a big bite, chocolate smearing the corner of his mouth. "It's just like I remembered!"
Lisa's expression softened for just a fraction of a second. Then she was turning away, guiding Mikey toward the door.
But at the threshold, she paused. Looked back.
"The cookies," she said quietly. "They were always his favorite."
Hannah nodded, not trusting her voice.
The bell chimed again as they left.
Hannah stood there for a long moment, staring at the place where they had been. Then, slowly, she turned back to her dough.
Her hands were steady now as they worked the soft mixture, adding just a little more flour.
Tomorrow, she'd make another batch of chocolate chip cookies.
And maybe—just maybe—someone else would remember that some things hadn't changed at all.