The first note shows up on a Tuesday, tucked under the glass cake stand like a forgotten receipt.
I only see it because I’m counting scones. Sixteen blueberry, eleven lemon, three sad little cranberry that no one loves but me. The morning rush at Hearth & Crumb hums around me—espresso machines hissing, chairs scraping, Harper singing something off-key under her breath—and there, on the stainless-steel counter, the edge of white paper peeks out from behind a slice of red velvet.
“Harper, did you start leaving love letters for the pastries?” I ask, half-distracted.
“If I did, the croissants would get them first.” Her voice floats from the front, followed by the soft smack of the register drawer. “People worship those flaky bastards more than they worship God.”
I smile, reach for the note, and feel sugar grit under my fingertips. Maybe it’s an order slip that fell out. Maybe it’s nothing.
The paper is folded once, neat, like someone took their time.
My name is on the outside. Just: Lia.
The pen has dragged slightly on the curve of the L—as if whoever wrote it pressed too hard.
Something cold sidles under my ribs.
I tell myself it’s stupid to hesitate. It’s just paper. It’s just a name.
I unfold it.
You left the side window unlocked last night.
Three seconds pass. Maybe four. In the space of them, the world doesn’t exactly stop, but it goes very, very quiet. The grinder at the bar screams in the background, someone laughs near the door, and my heart gives a useless kick, like it’s trying to punch through bone.
I read it again, as if the words might change.
You left the side window unlocked last night.
No signature. Just that.
The side window is in the alley, behind the bakery. Only staff use it. Only staff even know it opens, because it sticks unless you lift and shove at the same time. Harper curses it daily. I triple-check that lock every night, along with the ovens and the back door and the leftover cash in the little safe that isn’t nearly secure enough for corporate standards.
My hands suddenly feel too big, clumsy around a scrap of paper that weighs more than the sheet trays I haul every morning.
I should throw it away. I should laugh and wave it around and roll my eyes and say, Wow, someone’s observant. I should not be picturing my tiny, cramped apartment, the single lock on the front door, the way my phone lit up at 2:13 a.m. last week with an unknown number that hung up the second I answered.
“Lia?” Harper’s voice is closer now. She appears at my elbow, ponytail bobbing, apron smudged with chocolate. “We’re running low on the almond—” She stops when she sees my face. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” The word comes out too fast. My pulse is drumming in my ears. “Someone just left a weird note.”
Her eyes narrow. “Lemme see.”
I start to crumple it on reflex, but she’s quicker. She plucks it from my fingers and smooths it with stained thumbs.
Her mouth tightens as she reads. The joking disappears from her expression like someone flicked off a light.
“Who knew about the window?” she asks quietly.
“You. Me. Maybe Diego, but he never closes. The evening crew doesn’t use it.” My voice sounds thin, even to me.
