Emily stood in front of the peeling door that read The Cosy Café. The painted letters were crooked; the y barely clung to the word. Beside the step were dry lilac bushes, a rubbish bin and a pair of pigeons basking in the autumn sun.
Well, hello, new life, she muttered, slipping the key into the lock.
The new life smelled of damp, mould and old spices. Emily sneezed, cracked the windows, took a deep breath and set to work.
Youve lost your mind! her friend Lucys voice crackled over the phone. You bought a café? Here in this part of town? Did the layoff really push you this far?
Its better to bake buns than to count other peoples money, Emily sighed, wiping down the tables. Besides, Ive always dreamed of it. Remember how Granddad used to bake?
I remember. Dreams are one thing, a rundown shed another.
Its not a shed. Its my bakery.
She named it Mandarin Bread because her grandmother always folded grated mandarin zest into cinnamon rolls. In winter the house would smell of citrus and fresh dough. Emily wanted that warmth back.
The first week brought no customers. The café sat on the very edge of the neighbourhood, where only those who knew the shortcuts passed. Emily rose at five, mixed dough, baked, washed, tested recipes. The aromas of cinnamon and vanilla mingled with coffee. She placed a vase of mandarins on the sill and stuck a sign on the window: Pop in you wont regret it.
Grandma, help me, she whispered, laying out a fresh batch of fluffy snails.
As if on cue, that very evening Grandmother Margaret from the house next door shuffled in.
Are you the one baking buns? I was walking past, caught the smell. Let me have a bite.
Emily handed her a piece; the old lady squinted, chewed, and nodded.
Delicious. Real deal. Tomorrow Ill bring the girls down for a game of draughts. Youll have to make the coffee.
The next day three elderly ladies arrived, each with a bundle of stories. A week later three university students stopped by. Then a courier, then a mother with a pram. Word spread quietly but steadily through the area.
Emily refreshed the sign. Instead of Cosy it now read: Bakery with a Hint of Mandarin. Simon, one of the students, lent a hand.
You a designer or something? he asked.
Not yet. Im still studying. But your buns are divine. Id like the sign to look as good as the pastries.
For the first time in ages Emily felt needed. That evening Simon brought a friend: This is Kate, shes a photographer. Wed like to set up your social media.
Emilys eyes welled up.
Good day, a familiar, trembling voice called from the doorway. Sophie
She turned. In the doorway stood Luke, her exboyfriend, the one whod vanished a year ago to think things over and had taken a job in the same department.
What are you doing here? his tone was dry.
I heard youd opened a café. Thought Id have a look.
Ive looked. Im leaving.
Hold on. We used to
You once said I was too boring. Now youre bored without me?
He gave a crooked grin. Not that. Ive heard youve invested a lot. You know, until were legally divorced, everything you acquire counts as joint property.
Youre serious?
I dont want a fight. Maybe we can strike a deal? Ill help with repairs for a few percent
Emily stayed silent, then slipped off her apron, walked to the door and swung it wide.
Luke, the doors there. Get out. And dont come back.
He stepped forward, but Grandmother Margaret and her friends appeared in the doorway.
Oh, whos making a ruckus? Off you go, love. This is a womens kingdom.
Luke muttered something and left.
Who was that? one of the friends asked.
My exboyfriend. Came for his share.
Doesnt he have enough? the old lady chuckled, snatching another bun from the tray.
Emilys mother called. Whats all this, dear? Luke just rang. He says you shouted at him.
Mum, he turned up demanding a slice of the café. Do you think thats fair?
Hes practically my husband now. Maybe you two will get back together. Youre not getting any younger
Mom, I built this place from scratch, alone. Im happy. Cant you be proud?
I worry about you. A café in a rough part, a divorce, savings that are barely a pittance thats not a life.
This is my life, Mum. I chose it.
Fine. If you go bust, dont call me.
Emily hung up, stared at an empty mug and sighed.
May I come in? Kate peeked in. We just finished the shoot Are you crying?
Emily brushed away a tear. No. Just remembering what my gran used to say: if the dough sticks, you have to be patient. Its not ready yet.
Youre strong, Sophie. Weve got your back.
Kate hugged her and handed over her phone. Look, weve posted the first pictures. Already a hundred followers.
By spring the line for mandarin buns stretched around the corner. New items appeared: poppyseed rolls, cottagecheese twists, apple strudels. The bakery buzzed with life.
One evening a gentleman in his sixties knocked at the door, holding a small bouquet.
May I? he asked.
Yes?
Im the father of that Kate. My daughter moved to Manchester, but she tells me everything. Im a retired baker, now on my pension with nothing to do. Could I help?
Emily nodded.
From then on each morning they kneaded together. He told stories, she listened and learned. Occasionally new faces dropped in some to eat, some to hide from the world.
Lucys voice rang again on the phone. I keep thinking maybe I should quit accounting altogether?
Do you love buns?
More than that. Will you take me on?
Emily looked around the freshly painted shop, customers at tables, the mandarin scent filling the air, a folder of expansion plans on the counter.
I will. But you buy your own apron.
She laughed.
Outside a gentle spring rain fell. The bakery lived. People came and stayed. And for the first time Emily didnt fear the future, because now she truly had something of her own.
She woke before the alarm. A bus rumbled past, rain pattered against the window. The café stirred with her: a socket clicked, the green light on the espresso machine flickered, the old fridge hummed.
The bakery had taken on a life of its own. Seven months after opening, Emily still marveled at how a dream had become reality.
Downstairs, Thomas, Kates father, was already at work, firing up the ovens, checking the starter, tinkering with new recipes. Emily slipped downstairs barefoot.
Morning, boss! he called, not looking up from the dough.
Morning, wizard. Whats on the menu today?
Walnuthoney spirals and pumpkin strudels for the connoisseurs.
Emily nodded, poured herself a coffee and settled by the window. The scent of flour, caramel and rain filled the room, reminding her that nothing had been in vain.
The café had expanded into the adjacent shop, a small childrens corner was added, a bookshelf was installed, and a piano a gift from an elderly neighbour now sat in the corner
