She placed a glass jar on the workbench.
I recognized it immediately.
There was a small dent in the lid.
A familiar handwritten label.
It was my old sourdough starter.
The starter I’d left behind when my first bakery closed.
I stared at her.
“How?”
Lois smiled.
“Walter rescued it from your old cooler. He asked me to keep feeding it.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“He did?”
“He checked on it every month. Said you’d need it again someday.”
For almost three years, Grandpa had made sure that little jar remained alive.
Even when I believed my baking days were over.
Even when I thought he’d stopped believing in me.
Even when I had stopped believing in myself.
I carefully unscrewed the lid.
The familiar scent rose toward me.
Sweet.
Sour.
Alive.
I couldn’t speak.
Lois gently guided the next customer toward the register.
“Give her a moment.”
