Page 37 of Rise
She didn’t think of anything as she lay there, or maybe she thought of everything. Her grandmother’s hands. The golden light in Rise. Beck’s profile as he turned back toward the door.
You can’t pour from an empty cup.
From the front of the room, Leigh spoke only once more, her voice a hush in the gathering stillness.
“Remember everyone… there’s no right way to arrive. You’re here. And that’s enough.”
Hazel didn’t need to argue with that.
She just let herself lie still.
The studio had taken on a dim, golden glow by the time class ended. The late afternoon light pooled across the floorboards in long amber stripes, catching on dust motes and the slow, gentle movements of bodies gathering up their things.
Hazel sat cross-legged on her mat for a moment longer than necessary, hands braced on her knees, breathing slow. Her muscles ached in ways that felt unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. It was the kind of ache that came from doing something for herself for the first time in longer than she cared to admit.
This was always her habit, her way of moving through life. She didn’t prioritize caring for herself until the dam began to crack, until water began to pour through so many gaps that she couldn’t possibly plug them all at once. With a sharp sort of irony, she realized thatthiswas why her grandmother had gifted her the classes— yetanother well-intentioned expectation, placed heavily onto Hazel’s shoulders. She had given her the pressure and the purpose of the bakery, knowing Hazel would be unable to find that healthy line between commitment and burnout. And these classes were her grandmother’s attempt at drawing that line for her.
Around her, the soft rustle of fabric and the murmur of low voices echoed in the space— friends chatting as they rolled up mats, someone laughing quietly as they lingered near the door. The warmth of it all brushed at Hazel’s skin like something she wasn’t entirely sure she was allowed to touch.
She bent forward and rolled up her mat with care. Her hoodie was folded beside her, slightly creased, and she tugged it over her head before reaching for her water bottle.
That was when she noticed Leigh standing a few feet away, not looming, just waiting. Calm and composed, as if she’d been there for some time but hadn’t wanted to interrupt.
Hazel straightened, shouldering her bag. “Hey,” she said, voice soft, unsure whether she should thank her or offer a compliment.
Leigh nodded once, a small dip of her chin. “You move like someone who doesn’t trust her body yet,” she said.
Hazel blinked. “Oh. Uh… I’m sorry?”
Leigh’s expression didn’t shift. “It’s not a criticism. It just means there’s something you’re coming back from.”
Hazel let out a short breath, half a laugh, half something else. “Yeah, well, I guess that’d be accurate.”
“I haven’t made it into Rise yet, but I’ve been meaning to. People are talking.”
Hazel’s brows lifted, her eyes flaring wide. “They are?”
Leigh nodded. “There’s a buzz. The locals seem to like it, and if you ask me, Main Street’s been overdue for something like this. Especially something from someone who knows the town like you do.”
Hazel didn’t know what to say to that. The compliment— if it was one— landed somewhere uncertain. The pressure that often loomed within her chest fluttered, tickling at the back of her throat.
Leigh shifted her weight, eyes remaining locked on Hazel’s. “If you ever want people to know what you’re building over there, I know someone who might be able to help. A friend of mine writes freelance for a few regional food and lifestyle magazines. Local features, small business profiles, that sort of thing. Your story would be right up his alley.”
Hazel had gone still, her throat closing over. “Mystory?”
Leigh nodded. “You’ve inherited something people around here remember. That kind of narrative has weight.”
Hazel swallowed, trying to clean her throat, her cheeks warming. “I don’t know. That sounds like… a lot.”
“It might be,” Leigh said, lifting her shoulder in a shrug. “But it’s also reach. And sometimes reach matters more than readiness.”
Hazel didn’t know what to say to that. Her thoughts tangled into one another— press, exposure, her name in print. Something that stuck around, that lasted. The window of the shop, glowing in a photograph. The idea of her father, flipping through a Sunday paper in Hartford and recognizing her, even for a moment.
“Thank you,” she said finally, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. “I’ll think about it.”
Leigh nodded again, offering a gentle smile. “You should.”
Then she turned and walked away, just as purposeful as she’d arrived— no small talk, no trailing pleasantries. Just the weight of her words, still echoing long after she’d gone.
