My alarm woke me up at the fourth hour. It was the oddest sensation, as if someone had spoken my name without sound—like a whisper that echoed inside me rather than in the room.

Ana was still sleeping peacefully, her small form curled beneath the blanket, her breathing steady and calm. I smiled and slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb her. The room was still dim, with just the first hints of dawn filtering through the curtains. The early silence of the Inn made every movement feel amplified in the quiet. I dressed in silence, laying out Ana’s clothes for when she woke up, and then moved to do my morning ablutions. Once I was ready, I quietly slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind me.

Sam was already up, sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee, their expression one of pure bliss as they savored each sip. I giggled quietly as I approached them, and they looked up, smiling sheepishly.

“I know it was only a couple of days without coffee, but I really missed it,” Sam said, their voice still soft from the early hour.

I glanced at my watch—there was still about a quarter of an hour before I needed to be downstairs in the kitchen. It felt like just enough time to sit with Sam and maybe learn more about them. Ever since realizing yesterday how little I knew about Sam and Alex’s past, I'd been wanting a chance like this. But things had been so busy that finding a quiet moment had been impossible.

For someone who always tried to ease the burdens of others, it was unsettling to realize how much I had missed. They had hidden their struggles so well, and I had never really looked deeply enough. It struck me how easy it was to just exist alongside someone without truly seeing them. Today, I wanted to change that, even if it was just a small beginning.

I settled into the couch beside Sam, letting out a quiet sigh. "I didn't know Alex was in the military, and I didn't even know you were both sick. I feel like I've been such a self-centered friend, and I’m really sorry for that."

Sam looked over at me, shaking their head gently. "You don't need to be sorry," they said, their tone warm. "We’ve never asked much about each other’s pasts either. I think... we've all just enjoyed living in the moment, being friends without any pity involved. It was nice to have someone who didn't see us as sick, who just treated us as we were."

I nodded, their words sitting with me for a moment. Then I glanced at my watch. "Will you tell me your story now?" I asked softly. "I have a few minutes before I need to head downstairs to the kitchen."

Sam paused, looking into their cup thoughtfully. “Alex and I met through the Lymphoma program. It’s what we both had, but I was further along. This was supposed to be my last camping trip because the disease had progressed—I wouldn’t have been able to make another one.” Their voice softened, a mix of sadness and acceptance evident, and I could feel the weight of what they were saying settling between us. “My mom passed away a few years ago, and my dad died when I was little. Alex didn’t have much either—some friends and then me. We always fit together like two sides of the same coin. Alex can tell you their story later, but I’ll say this: you and Ana are really the only people we’d have missed. So being here with you two makes it… perfect.”

I reached over, squeezing their hand gently. “I’m glad we’re here together,” I said quietly.

Sam smiled softly. “What about you?”

“My mom and dad both passed away when I was young, before Ana was born,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. “My stepmom wanted nothing to do with a pregnant teen, so I moved in with my aunt Tammy. We didn’t have much of a relationship before then, but she was kind. We never got very close, but she bonded well with Ana, and I think that’s the one thing that makes me sad about leaving. But Ana seems happy here, and honestly, by the time we would have made it back… Tammy would probably be gone, and no one else would know us.”

A silence settled between us, thick with the weight of our shared pasts. I let it linger, taking a moment to just be there, to feel the connection forged through our stories. My gaze drifted down to my watch, and reality tugged me back. It was time to move, even though part of me wanted to stay in this quiet moment a little longer.

I sighed softly, squeezing Sam’s hand one more time. "I should get downstairs," I said, my voice gentle. I met Sam's eyes, trying to convey all the gratitude I felt in just that look. "Thank you, for everything. For helping Ana, and for sharing this with me."

Sam gave me a small, knowing smile, their fingers brushing against mine before I let go. "We’ll see you at breakfast," they replied, warmth in their tone.

I stood, taking a final breath to settle myself. As I moved away, the thought of all we’d left behind—along with everything ahead—filled me with a strange, bittersweet resolve. I paused at the door, glancing back at Sam. "See you soon," I said, offering a smile, before slipping quietly out of the room.

The hallway was quiet as I made my way downstairs, the early morning stillness wrapping around me like a soft embrace. I let my thoughts drift, holding onto the warmth of Sam’s words as I approached the kitchen, ready to begin the day.

As I walked into the dining room, the warmth of the fire blazing in the hearth spread comfort throughout the space. The room was empty but I could hear the soft clinking of dishes and the muffled sounds of early morning prep coming from the kitchen. Stepping through the swinging door, I saw Miriam and Nira, the kitchen helper, already moving around with precision and familiarity, their focus evident as they worked.

“Morning,” I greeted both of them, stepping closer. “Where can I start?”

Miriam glanced at me with an appraising look, her demeanor shifting from her usual warmth to something more serious and focused. “What experience do you have with cooking?” she asked, her tone all business.

“I have an associate's degree in culinary arts, focused on sustainable cooking,” I replied, watching her for any reaction. Realizing that I wasn’t sure what time period Miriam had come from, I hesitated, curious if my explanation would make sense to her or if I would need to explain more.

She smiled, the serious edge softening slightly. “You might be more educated than me, but I’ve got about thirty years more experience under my belt. I think we’ll work well together.” She nodded toward Nira, who was busy kneading dough. “Nira here comes from a time before many of these more modern… conveniences.” Miriam gave a wry smile. “She did most of her cooking over a campfire or hearth, and she’s been here about five years now. Her ability to take simple foods and add flavors that’ll make you weep with joy is something special.”

I glanced over at Nira, who gave a small smile but remained focused on her work. “I’d love to learn from you and share knowledge, Nira, if you’re okay with that?” I asked, keeping my voice respectful.

Nira looked up briefly, her dark eyes meeting mine. She nodded once, before she turned her focus back to kneading. Miriam caught my eye and mouthed, “Later,” with an amused expression. It seemed Nira was not one to talk much, but I hoped to connect more as we worked.

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“Alright,” Miriam began, wiping her hands on her apron. “We start the morning by getting out the basic pans we’ll need, heating the oven, and getting the bread ready to rise. The oven’s already on, so let’s mix that dough. With the three of us, it should go faster. The breakfast rush starts around the sixth hour, so we need to get this done.” She gave me a nod, indicating I should follow her to the counter where the ingredients were ready.

Miriam nodded toward the counter where the ingredients waited. “Alright, Ani, let’s get started on the dough. You have made bread before?” I nodded, “then I’m sure this will be familiar, but I like to take my time with it.” She explained each step as we worked together. There were no electric mixers here, and Miriam mentioned that there were magical methods for kneading dough, but none that she knew herself.

I watched as she took the flour, tipping it into a large bowl with practiced ease. The way her hands moved was confident, almost rhythmic, and I found myself falling into the gentle sway of her motions. She glanced at me, a slight smile forming. “You know, the first time I made bread, I must have been about eight or nine,” Her eyes softened, and I could see something else beneath the surface of her words—something deeper that I didn’t quite understand yet.

She added the yeast next, sprinkling it evenly, her eyes watching the particles fall like tiny grains of sand. “Back then, I was just the kitchen helper. My family... well, they weren’t what you’d call loving. I was never quite what they wanted.” Her fingers stilled over the yeast for a moment, then continued as she poured the warm water into the mix, the sound of it soft against the flour.

“I didn’t know who I was at that age, not really. I only knew that I didn’t fit in, that there was something wrong with me—or at least, that’s what everyone kept saying.” She paused, her eyes flicking up to meet mine, as if searching to see if I understood. “I was born into a community that didn’t tolerate different. People like me—well, they were ridiculed, beaten down, cast out. I wasn’t anyone’s child; I was just another mouth to feed, another set of hands for work. My job was to help in the kitchen, mostly to bake bread. And I loved it, even though it was all I had.”

She turned her attention back to the dough, dipping her hands in and beginning to mix, her fingers working with deliberate care. I followed her lead, my hands slipping into the warm mixture, feeling the ingredients meld beneath my fingers. “There’s something about mixing dough,” she said quietly. “Back then, it was the only thing I could control. The flour, the water, the yeast—each one came together in a predictable way. Life outside the kitchen was chaos, but this… this was something I could make right.”

I could feel the mixture starting to come together, my own hands mirroring her movements as we began to knead. Miriam pushed down with the heel of her hand, folding the dough over itself again and again. “When you knead bread, you pound out the tension. You push and pull until it gives. It’s resistance, but it’s a resistance you can work with.” She glanced at me, her eyes shimmering with the depth of her memories. “I’d stand there, pounding that dough, imagining every hateful word, every bruise, every scar, and I’d push them into the flour, into something that was going to become… more.”

The silence in the kitchen was filled only by the rhythmic sounds of our kneading, the soft thud of hands working the dough. I could see her losing herself in the memory, her eyes distant but her hands steady. “When I came out, it wasn’t a sudden thing. I knew who I was, but saying it… there was a cost. And when I did, they made sure I paid it. I was beaten so badly, they left me there, on the edge of town, as if throwing out trash. It was that night, alone in the cold, that I thought about what I’d always loved about bread—the way it can rise, the way something beaten down can transform into something warm, something that feeds others.”

Her voice was steady, but I could hear the pain beneath it, the years of hurt that somehow never managed to break her. I could feel my own throat tighten as I looked at her, my hands still moving, still kneading. “It was the bread that kept me going. I kept imagining all those loaves I’d made, the way they came out of the oven warm, comforting. I thought, maybe I could be like that. Maybe I could survive this and still have something to give.”

She sighed, the sound filled with both sorrow and something hopeful. “When I woke up here, I thought I’d died. But it turns out, someone found me. Someone brought me here, healed me, gave me a chance to start over.” Her hands moved a little slower, the dough taking shape now, becoming smooth and elastic. “I wasn’t alone anymore. Everyone here had something they’d left behind—a pain, a sickness, something that made the world they came from unbearable. And here, we were given a new life.”

I swallowed, feeling my eyes sting as I listened. I hadn’t truly understood just how much this world meant to people like Miriam. I glanced down at the dough in my hands, realizing that for her, it wasn’t just bread. It was hope, it was resilience—it was a chance to shape something beautiful from all the pain that had been pushed into her.

Miriam looked at me, her lips curving into a gentle smile. “And now, every time I make bread, I think about that. About how something that starts out rough and shapeless can turn into something that rises, something that gives warmth. It reminds me of myself, of all of us here. It’s a new chance—a chance to rise.”

We worked in silence for a few moments more, letting the weight of her words settle in the room, as the dough slowly transformed under our hands. It was strange how the simple act of kneading—of pushing and folding—now felt so much deeper. I realized, as I stood beside her, that this was more than just making bread for the morning’s breakfast. It was about taking everything that had tried to break us and turning it into something nourishing, something that could sustain not just us, but everyone around us.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. Miriam smiled, her eyes warm, as she gave the dough one last push. “Thank you for listening, Ani. Bread has a way of connecting people, and I think we could all use a little more of that.”

As we covered the dough and set it aside to rise, I looked around the kitchen, my heart swelling with a mix of emotions. This place, this inn, this kitchen—it was a refuge, a place where people who had been broken could find warmth and a chance to rise again. And as the first hints of morning light began to filter through the windows, I realized that, for the first time in a long while, I felt like I was truly part of something.

“The process of making bread in the morning is something I love—it’s my version of coffee, something that gets me going. Speaking of coffee, there’s a pot ready. Would you like some?” she offered as she worked.

“I’m more of a tea or water person in the mornings,” I replied with a smile, declining politely. Miriam nodded in understanding.

Once we had the dough covered and set to rise, we moved on to prepping breakfast items. We didn’t do much of the hot cooking ahead of time, but we did precook sausages and some bacon. I helped slice the bacon from a large slab, wrapping it back up afterward and placing it in the coolbox. The coolbox was fascinating to me—a mix of mundane and magical, something akin to a refrigerator but without electricity to maintain the temperature. I wonder if this was a skill someone had her and how often they had to refresh it. We also prepared vegetables and fruits, pulled out butter and cheese, and ensured everything was ready for the breakfast rush.

Around the sixth hour, the first orders began coming in, and the kitchen became a flurry of activity. Another girl, younger with her hair tied in a neat braid, joined us, and Tommy came in soon after, slipping into his role seamlessly. The energy shifted from the quiet, methodical preparation to bustling efficiency. Miriam and I took places at the stove, cooking eggs to order, adding vegetables or cheese as requested, and keeping up with the steady stream of orders. The bread was formed and put in the oven. Everything was perfectly timed and I wondered if Miriam used her alarm clock to handle cook times.

“More eggs, Ani!” Miriam called out over her shoulder, her voice warm despite the rush. I turned to grab another batch from the coolbox, quickly cracking them into a bowl. Tommy worked at the counter, slicing more bread for toast, his movements swift and confident.

It wasn’t long before I lost myself in the rhythm of the kitchen—the sizzle of the pan, the gentle hum of conversation, the clattering of plates. Time seemed to fly by, and before I knew it, Miriam glanced at the clock on the wall.

“You should stop and get something to eat before your orientation,” she said, her voice breaking through my focus.

I looked up, realizing how quickly the morning had passed. I nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude for the chance to work alongside her and Nira. I’d learned so much already, and it was only the start of the day. There was something deeply fulfilling about being part of this kitchen—a place where warmth and hard work intertwined to create comfort for others. It felt like a small piece of home, one I hadn't realized I needed.

“Thank you,” I said earnestly to both of them, wiping my hands on my apron before making myself a plate of eggs with vegetables, some fruit, and a slice of toast with butter and cheese. As I left the kitchen, I could still smell the bread rising, and it filled me with a sense of satisfaction from the morning’s work.