Chapter 5

  PAN De Gloria

  Huntington

  beach California

  Conseulo exhales, settling into the quiet after the morning rush. A few customers linger, murmuring over their cooling café con leche. The ovens sigh their last warmth into the air, heavy with the scent of fried churros—sweet, golden, impossible to ignore.

  At her usual corner table, Consuelo Dominguez squints at her laptop, the screen’s glow harsh against the bakery’s cozy dimness. A new set of notifications blinks at her from —her little corner of the internet, where bakers, café owners, and dreamers come to vent, cry, or find a reason to keep going.

  She scrolls. A baker in Texas is celebrating an early sellout. A café owner in Miami is wondering if it’s even worth staying open anymore. A guy in New York is on the brink of a meltdown over a flour shortage.

  Consuelo sighs, shaking her head.

  Carlos would’ve teased her, called her a She can almost hear him now, that playful reverence in his voice.

  A new post catches her eye. :

  Her heart pinches. She knows that kind of exhaustion—the bone-deep weariness that makes even simple joys feel out of reach. She flexes her fingers, then types, slow and steady:

  She pauses, rereading. Simple, but not small. Words, like dough, have weight. They hold things together.

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  The scent of cinnamon and chocolate drifts closer. Marisol, balancing a plate of churros con chocolate, sets it beside the laptop. “Abuela, don’t forget to eat,” she says, firm but warm, the way only someone who really cares can be.

  Consuelo glances up, a slow smile creeping onto her face. “Mija, I’m old, not fading. I remember to eat.” But she pats Marisol’s hand anyway—gratitude in the gesture.

  She takes a bite. The sugar sticks to her fingertips. The crunch pulls her back into the moment. Across the bakery, laughter spills into the air, wrapping around her like an old, familiar song.

  The forum pings with a reply, but she lets it wait. Right now, this is enough. The warmth of the bakery, the taste of something sweet, the quiet ember of Carlos’ memory.

  Some connections are fleeting. Others—like the scent of baking bread or the sound of a grandchild’s laughter—linger, deep and lasting.

  The panadería settles into its midday rhythm, the morning rush giving way to something quieter—the hum of the fridge, the swish of a broom, the occasional clatter from the kitchen. Sunlight pours through the big windows, stretching golden streaks across the polished tables. The scent of warm bread and cinnamon lingers, cozy and familiar, like an old friend wrapping Consuelo in a hug.

  At her usual corner, she leans back, laptop glowing in front of her. The forum has slowed, its frantic energy fading, leaving behind a familiar weight in her chest. With a sigh, she minimizes the window, revealing the photo beneath it. Carlos, mid-laugh, hazel eyes glinting with trouble, tattoos peeking from his rolled-up sleeves. He always looked like he was just about to say something ridiculous, like he knew a joke the rest of the world hadn’t caught up to yet.

  Her fingers hover over the keyboard, but her mind drifts. That laugh. That grin. The world saw the ink, the sharp edges, but they never looked past them. A heart too big to fit inside the lines people drew for him.

  She remembers him as a kid—loud, fast, impossible to catch. Always running through these aisles in scuffed sneakers, hands swiping pastries when he thought no one was looking. she used to call him, half-scolding, half-smiling. She was proud of him. Always. But the world? The world was too busy deciding who he should be.

  A burst of laughter pulls her back. She looks up. A little boy, no older than Carlos once was, clutches a pastelito with both hands, his mother ruffling his hair. His face is bright, all joy, all sweetness, like the only thing that matters in this moment is the treat in his hands.

  Something shifts inside her, a gentle press of past against present. She glances at Carlos’s photo, her chest tightening in that way she’s learned to live with.

  Her fingers return to the keyboard. Slowly, deliberately, she types:

  She reads it over, then presses send. It’s not much, but it’s something. A small truth, set loose in the world.

  Outside, the neighborhood hums, alive with its own rhythm. A distant hush of waves rolls in from Huntington Beach, a soft reminder that life stretches far beyond this bakery, beyond this moment.

  Consuelo leans back, exhaling slowly. Carlos’s laughter still lingers in the quiet spaces of her mind, tucked into the walls, the air, the very heartbeat of this place.