Page 99 of Rise
Not pushing, not coaxing.
Just holding the space.
The wind picked up again, brushing past Hazel’s legs like a cat rounding her ankles, cool and familiar.
And then, with no words and no warning, Imogen stepped forward, letting out a rough exhale that felt a lot like a quiet agreement.
It was a small, quiet surrender of distance.
Hazel didn’t smile or nod. She simply turned, like breath shifting in a quiet room, and opened the door the rest of the way.
And together, they crossed the threshold.
Inside, the warmth gathered around them. The bakery was dark except for the golden glow of the porcelain town in the window. It cast long, honeyed shadows across the floor, making the worn wood gleam. Light pooled against the table legs, curled across the countertops, settled into corners like it had been waiting there. The scent of maple and cinnamon still hung in the air, less sharp now, more settled. Like a lullaby played too many times on an old record, softened at the edges by memory.
Neither of them spoke.
Imogen drifted forward, her steps tentative and composed. Her heels tapped against the floor, slowing as she reached the tiny display by the front window. She didn’t crouch, didn’t bend. Just stood before it, still as a painting.
Hazel stayed where she was, letting the silence stretch like ribbon. She watched the subtle changes in Imogen’s face, the pause, the slight tilt of her head, the shift in her breath.
Her eyes didn’t land on the storefronts or the clusters of painted townspeople, but drifted further in to the park bench near the frozen pond, the lamppost with the crooked base, the mail carrier standing at the end of a drive holding a parcel wrapped in green. There was something unbearably still about the way she looked at it, as if she’d stumbled into a memory she hadn’t meant to unearth.
Hazel’s voice broke the quiet a beat later.
“My grandmother used to take them out every year,” she said, her eyes remaining on Imogen’s profile as she spoke. “Each of them were wrapped in paper like they were made of glass. She had a story for all of them, every single little porcelain person there.”
Imogen didn’t turn. But Hazel saw her shoulders shift, barely. A small, almost imperceptible hitch in the line of her spine.
“She used to say,” Hazel went on, her voice quieter now. “That it was nice to imagine a place where no one left. Where you always knew where to find the people you loved.”
Imogen’s hands had slipped from her pockets. Her fingers twitched once at her sides, as though unsure what to do with themselves.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was solemn and still, steeped in the kind of quiet that feels like respect.
Between them, the small round table stood like neutral ground. Four bakery boxes were stacked neatly on its surface, tied with twine, their sides still faintly warm from the ovens earlier that day. Hazel moved first, reaching across the table and sliding her fingers beneath the top two boxes. She lifted them into her arms without breaking her gaze from the window.
Imogen turned towards her, watching as Hazel shifted a few inches toward the door, the boxes held high in her arms. Then, after a beat, she reached forward and did the same, gathering the remaining boxes with both hands. Her grip was careful but sure, as if the act of carrying something might anchor her.
Their eyes met over the stack. Not for long, but long enough. Hazel’s brows lifted, just slightly— a question that didn’t need to be asked aloud. And Imogen— her chin still high, her shoulders still drawn— gave the smallest nod.
No words passed between them. They didn’t need to speak to understand.
Hazel turned first, shifting the boxes in her arms, and stepped toward the door. Imogen followed without hesitation, the sound of her heels reminding Hazel that she wasn’t far behind.
Outside, the cold met them with its usual quiet bite, the wind tugging gently at their coats. Snow still fell in slow spirals, the kind that didn’t rush to land. Across the street, Greyfin glowed like a beacon, music and warmth pulsing through the windows.
They walked side by side, the silence between them no longer strained but companionable in its own quiet way. Their shoes left twin tracks in the dusting of snow, their breath rising in pale clouds that faded into the dark.
At the curb, Hazel paused, adjusting the weight in her arms to open the door.
“You don’t have to stay long,” she murmured, her voice nearly lost to the wind.
“I know,” Imogen said. Her tone wasn’t bitter, justeven.
Hazel opened the door, the heat and music spilling out in a sudden rush of light and sound.
And together, they stepped inside.
