Page 112 of Rise
Hazel didn’t raise her voice, she didn’t need to. “I’m thinking of closing for a few days around Christmas.”
There was a beat, though it wasn’t long. Just long enough to be noticeable.
“Oh,” Juno said, blinking. Her voice came out too bright, like she was trying to fill a space that had suddenly gone hollow. “Yeah. Totally. That makes sense. You’ve been going nonstop since opening. You definitely deserve the break.”
Hazel nodded, eyes trained on the floor like it held answers. One of her feet swayed back and forth a bit as she twisted the stool this way and that, her legs too short to reach the ground beneath her.
“I’ll reach out after the holidays. Let you know what the schedule looks like.”
She didn’t sayour schedule. And Juno heard it, even if she didn’t say so.
“Cool,” she said after a pause. “Well… let me know if you need anything. I’ll be around.”
Hazel didn’t answer.
She could see the movement in her periphery as Juno replaced her scarf, tucking it into the collar of her coat. Hazel could feel her gaze heavy on her face, but she couldn’t bring herself to look up.
“Merry Christmas, Hazel,” the younger woman offered, her voice quieter than Hazel had ever heard it.
“Yeah, you too,” she replied, her eyes still fixed on that same spot on the floor.
A minute later, the door opened again, and then closed.
And just like that, the silence returned. It settled in like cold water rising in the walls, seeping between the floorboards. Hazel sat there for a moment longer, her phone still resting in her hand, the unsent message lingering just beneath the screen’s surface, like a truth she didn’t want to touch.
She moved after that. Not quickly, but with the kind of quiet resolve that came only when you stopped hoping someone else might intervene. Around the corner, past the cooler, down the hallway to the cubbies in the back where she kept the extra aprons and her keys and the spare sweater she never wore, too warm from the constant running around and the heat of the ovens when she pulled them open. Sheknelt and unzipped the smallest side pocket of her bag, fingers already knowing what they were reaching for.
The card was still there, the corners curling ever so slightly, like parchment left too long in the sun. The serif font was elegant and just a little too cheerful, displaying the name of the realtor who had approached her that humid, August morning at her grandmother’s funeral. On the back, written in faded blue pen, it said,Sorry for your loss. If you ever change your mind, give me a call.
Hazel stared at it for a long time, but not because she wasn’t sure. Because she was. And she hated it sosomuch.
When she finally stood, the card held between her fingers, she caught the scent of the bakery again— sugar, citrus, browned butter. It smelled like comfort, like everything she had poured herself into for months. But today, it didn’t touch her. It was like breathing in a dream, fragrant and familiar and impossibly far away. Something she had been trying to reach for, trying to chase, but that kept moving further and further away.
Just like her job back in Boston.
Hazel retraced her steps back to the front of the bakery. She unlocked her phone and swiped the message to her father away, but she didn’t delete it, didn’t reread it. She just let it slip back into the quiet space where unsent things go.
The number was printed clear across the top of the card. She typed it in without hesitation.
And then, she made the call.
It rang once, then again.
And then a bright, practiced voice on the other end said, “Hello, this is Lynn Weatherbie with Weatherbie Realty. How can I help you today?”
Hazel didn’t clear her throat, didn’t fumble. Her voice came out even and low.
“Hi,” she said. “My name is Hazel Simmons. You left your card for me a while back, after my grandmother passed.”
She paused, but not because she was searching for words. She paused because this time, she wanted to mean them.She wanted to take all the restless energy twisting in her gut, the ache of doubt, the low hum of fear, and shape it into something solid. She wanted the words to sound like choice, not retreat. Like strength, not surrender.
“I think I’d like to talk about my options. For listing the house.”
A few minutes of barely registered conversation later, Hazel ended the call.
The silence that followed felt final. Not dramatic, not sudden. Just... inevitable. Like something giving way beneath old pressure.
She stared at the screen for a moment longer, the last digits of the phone number still lingering before they disappeared, swallowed up by the pale glow of the home screen. There were crumbs on the counter— almond dust and sugar flakes from a croissant she hadn’t eaten— and a pen that had long since run out of ink. Everything around her looked exactly the same, but something inside her had shifted. The ache in her chest didn’t feel sharp anymore. It felt low and constant, like a hum beneath the floorboards.
