By six in the morning, people were already gathering outside my storefront.
Gus and his grandson had hung my old blue sign above the entrance the evening before.
Angstrom Bread.
Inside, my equipment stood exactly where Grandpa had marked the floor.
I attached his old iron cardamom grinder to the workbench.
Then I placed the two-dollar bill beneath my new register.
Just as I’d done years earlier.
The ovens warmed.
The smell of freshly ground cardamom filled the room.
And I opened the doors.
Customers arrived throughout the morning.
Farmers.
Nurses finishing overnight shifts.
Families from the neighborhood.
People who remembered Ingrid’s original bakery.
They ordered rye bread, cardamom braids, and fresh buns.
For hours, I barely stopped moving.
But I wasn’t afraid.
My hands were steady.
Around midday, Lois entered carrying something wrapped in a kitchen towel.
“Greta, there’s one more thing Walter wanted you to have.”
