Page 47 of Rook
Avery stood in the center of Sweet Treats, hands on her hips, taking in the silence. No tears. No panic. No running.
Today, she was taking something back.
She tied Aunt Clara’s old apron around her waist, faded pink, frayed at the edges, still carrying the faintest trace of cinnamon and vanilla. The familiar scent wrapped around her like a memory she wasn’t afraid of anymore.
The recipe box sat where she’d left it last night, its corners worn smooth from years of use. She lifted the lid, fingertips brushing the familiar loops of Aunt Clara’s handwriting.
Sticky Pecan Cinnamon Rolls — Clara’s Sunday Special
Her throat tightened, but she didn’t look away.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s do this.”
She gathered ingredients, moving with a steadiness she hadn’t felt in months. Flour dusted her hands, her shirt, the counter. Eggs cracked cleanly. Butter softened under her palms. The dough came together warm and pliable, sticking to her fingers in a way that tugged at something deep inside her, childhood mornings, laughter, sunlight on the kitchen floor.
She rolled it out, spread the butter, sprinkled the chopped pecans, and layered the cinnamon sugar. The smell rose immediately, curling through the air, wrapping around her like a hug she didn’t know she needed.
When she slid the tray into the oven, the rush of emotion hit her hard: pride, grief, hope, all tangled together in a way that made her chest feel too full.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist.
“Not today,” she murmured. “Today is mine.”
While the rolls baked, she dragged the old bakery sign onto the counter. The paint was chipped, the lettering faded, the once-bright colors dulled by years of weather and neglect. It looked tired. Forgotten.
As she crossed the kitchen to grab the paintbrush she’d left soaking in a jar, Avery paused.
The back door.
The lock was turned the wrong direction.
She frowned, stepping closer. She was certain — absolutely certain — she’d locked it last night. She remembered the click, the way she’d tested it twice out of habit. She always locked it. Always.
Avery reached out slowly and slid the bolt back into place. Her fingers trembled.
A soft chill crept up her spine, the kind that didn’t come from the air conditioning or the draft under the door. Something about it felt… wrong. Off. Like someone had touched something they shouldn’t have.
She stood there for a long moment, listening to the quiet hum of the ovens, the faint tick of cooling metal, the steady rhythm of her own breathing.
Then she forced herself to turn away.
She wasn’t going to ruin today. Not when she’d worked so hard to reclaim it.
Avery wiped her palms on her apron, grabbed the paintbrush, and told herself she must’ve forgotten. Must’ve been tired. Must’ve been distracted.
She didn’t believe it.
But she didn’t say it out loud either.
Avery moved back to the front counter, dipped the brush into fresh paint, and began tracing the letters.
Sweet Treats
Home is where the sweetness is.
Her hand trembled at first — not from fear, but from the weight of what she was reclaiming. Then her strokes steadied. Then they flowed. Each line felt like stitching something back together inside herself.
By the time the timer dinged, the sign gleamed with new life, bright, warm, hers.
