Chapter 1 #2
She tried not to think about it.
The first batch was always pork buns—Grandmother's recipe, the one that still sold out by 9 AM every single day.
Lucy's hands moved through the motions without conscious thought: mixing the dough, letting it rest, rolling it out, filling each bun with the savory pork mixture she'd prepped yesterday.
Fold, pinch, fold, pinch. Place in steamer. Repeat.
By 5:30, the first buns were steaming and the kitchen smelled like home.
Lucy moved on to the morning pastries: croissants, Danish, the cinnamon rolls that the high school kids went crazy for.
Everything was rhythm and routine, hands moving while her brain stayed mostly offline.
She liked it this way. Thinking led to dangerous places, to questions like what if and is this really all there is and when did I become my grandmother.
Better to just bake.
Above her, she heard the telltale creak of her upstairs neighbor getting home.
Again. This guy—and Lucy was 90% sure it was a guy, based on the heavy footsteps—had the most bizarre schedule.
He got home at all hours, moved around like an elephant, and apparently never slept.
Last Tuesday, Lucy had been woken up at 2:30 AM by what sounded like furniture being moved.
She'd grabbed her broom and banged on the ceiling until the noise stopped.
The noise had started again at 3 AM.
Lucy was a patient person. She was a kind person. But she was also a person who got up at 4:45 AM every day and desperately needed her sleep. If Mystery Neighbor kept this up, she was going to have to do something about it.
Through the wall—the one that separated her apartment from the unit next door—she heard another sound.
This neighbor was different. Quieter. More ghostlike.
Lucy had lived here for five years and she'd seen this neighbor exactly twice: once in the hallway, a blur of dark hair and a duffel bag, and once in the parking lot, loading a massive sports equipment bag into a truck.
She'd waved both times. Both times, Ghost Neighbor had nodded back and disappeared.
Timber Falls. Where your neighbors were simultaneously strangers and people whose entire schedules you knew by heart.
By 6:30, Lucy was pulling the first batch of cinnamon rolls from the oven when her phone buzzed. A text from Rei: coffee? I have news
Lucy typed back: have to open. Come here instead?
10 min
Good. Lucy needed caffeine and she needed it from someone other than herself.
She started the commercial coffee maker—a fancy Italian espresso machine that had been Uncle Walter's birthday present to her last year—and tried not to yawn.
Six hours of sleep. That was almost luxurious. Last week she'd averaged four.
The front door chimed at 6:45. Rei Nakamura swept in like a small, determined tornado, her PT bag slung over one shoulder and her dark hair pulled into a high ponytail.
"You look like death," Rei announced.
"Good morning to you too."
"I'm serious, Luce. When's the last time you took a day off?"
Lucy pulled a double espresso and slid it across the counter. "I take Mondays off."
"That's one day a week. Normal people take two."
"Normal people don't run their own businesses."
Rei gave her a look—the one that meant we're coming back to this—but mercifully grabbed the espresso and changed subjects. "So. News. The Wolves have a new rookie."
"Okay?"
"Twenty-one, fresh out of juniors, cute in a puppy-dog way."
"Rei."
"His name is Owen. Owen Fletcher. Boston money, thinks hockey is going to save him from his destiny of managing his family's investment firm."
Lucy started arranging the morning pastries in the display case. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because he's already been in here three times this week and it's only Wednesday. He's developing a crush on Mae."
"Mae is twenty and in college."
"I know. It's adorable. Also, you should probably warn her."
Lucy glanced toward the back room, where Mae would be arriving any minute to help with the morning rush.
Mae Larson: environmental science major at UVM, part-time employee, chronic optimist. She'd been working at The Bread Basket for two years and had never once complained about the early hours or the terrible pay.
"I'll warn her," Lucy promised. "Anything else?"
Rei hesitated, then: "Jake Morrison has been asking about you."
Lucy's hands stilled on the Danish she was arranging. "What?"
"The team captain. Well, assistant captain. 'Reaper.'"
"I know who Jake Morrison is, Rei. He comes in here every Wednesday."
"For three years. And gets six pork buns and a black coffee and never says more than 'thanks.' Yeah, I know. But yesterday at PT, he asked me if you ever take breaks."
Lucy's heart did something weird in her chest. "Why?"
"I don't know. I told him to come in and ask you himself." Rei grinned. "He turned bright red and changed the subject."
"That's—" Lucy didn't finish the sentence because she didn't know how to finish it.
Jake Morrison was a customer. A regular, sure, but still just a customer.
The fact that he was also tall and broad-shouldered and had these intense hazel eyes that made Lucy feel like he was seeing right through her whenever he looked at her—that was irrelevant.
"Earth to Lucy."
"I'm here. And it's nothing. He was probably just being polite."
"Jake Morrison is a lot of things, but 'polite' isn't really his vibe. The guy barely talks. They call him Reaper because he's stone-faced during games."
Lucy had been to exactly two Timber Falls Wolves games in her life, both times because Uncle Walter had gotten free tickets.
She remembered almost nothing about the games themselves—hockey had never been her thing—but she did remember seeing number 19 on the ice, moving with a precision and intensity that had made it impossible to look away.
She also remembered thinking that anyone who played hockey with that much focus probably needed therapy.
"Anyway," Rei said, draining her espresso. "I have to get to the rink. Morning skate. But seriously, Luce—think about taking a real day off. Maybe two. You're going to burn out."
"I'm fine."
"You say that a lot. Doesn't make it true."
The door chimed as Rei left, and Mae came in from the back room at the same moment, tying her apron and yawning.
"Morning, boss."
"Morning. Coffee's fresh."
Mae poured herself a cup and started checking the day's prep list. She was a good employee, Lucy reminded herself. Reliable. Cheerful. Only occasionally showed up with hangovers from college parties. If she wanted to date a hockey player, that was her business.
Lucy went back to the kitchen to check on the pork buns.
The morning rush started at 7 AM sharp. That was when the Timber Falls early risers descended: Mr. Peterson, who'd been ordering the same bran muffin and black coffee for longer than Lucy had been alive.
The Knitting Circle—four women in their late sixties who commandeered the corner table every morning and discussed everyone's business while pretending not to.
Tom and Jerry (not their real names, but that's what Grandmother had called them, and it stuck), the married couple who owned the hardware store next door and ordered matching everything.
By 8 AM, Lucy's feet were already hurting and she had flour on her cheek again.
She'd lost track of how many times she'd refilled the pastry case or pulled fresh loaves from the oven.
Mae was handling the register with her usual sunny competence, chatting with customers like she'd known them all her life.
This was good. This was Lucy's life: routine, rhythm, the comfort of knowing what came next.
It was enough.
It had to be enough.
At 8:17—Lucy glanced at the clock behind the counter—the door chimed and Jake Morrison walked in.
He looked exactly like he always did: dark hair slightly too long, five o'clock shadow that was definitely pushing toward seven o'clock, wearing a Wolves hoodie and jeans that had seen better days.
But today, instead of heading straight to the counter like he usually did, he paused just inside the door and looked around the bakery like he was seeing it for the first time.
Lucy's stomach did that weird thing again. She ignored it.
"Hey," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Wednesday pork buns?"
Jake blinked, refocusing on her. "Yeah. Please."
"Give me two minutes. They just came out."
She turned back to the kitchen, acutely aware that he was still standing there, still looking at her. Or maybe not. Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe Rei's comment had gotten into her head and now she was being weird about a perfectly normal customer interaction.
Lucy packed six pork buns into a container, added a black coffee, and brought them back to the register.
"$12.50," Mae said cheerfully.
Jake handed over a twenty and told Mae to keep the change. Then he did something unprecedented: he made eye contact with Lucy.
"These are really good," he said.
Lucy's brain short-circuited for a second. "Oh. Thanks. My grandmother's recipe."
"Yeah. I can tell." He shifted his weight, like he wanted to say something else but didn't know how. "Anyway. Thanks."
"You're welcome."
He left.
Mae turned to Lucy with wide eyes. "Did Jake Morrison just try to have a conversation with you?"
"That wasn't a conversation. That was a transaction."
"He complimented the pork buns."
"He's been eating them for three years. He probably felt obligated."
But as Lucy went back to the kitchen, she couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. Something small and probably meaningless, but something nonetheless.
Above her, through the ceiling, she heard her upstairs neighbor moving around again.
Mystery Neighbor was going to be a problem. She could feel it.