The faint smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the small bakery as a woman, her shoulders slumped with the weight of the world, stepped through the door. That's when the evening manager, his apron as white as the pastries behind the counter, offered his silent understanding with a knowing look and a warm smile. "Welcome back," the voice was soft and comforting, the subtle cue ignored as she sank into a chair at the corner table. "The usual, Mrs. Hargrove? Ma'am, I’ve saved the only seat for you." A grateful nod thanked him without words, silently revealing the sanctuary she sought from her problems. Today, though, her order was plain: a plain scone and black tea. No frills, no foam. Just something simple, reliable, like the bakery that had been her anchor through stormy weeks. As the clatter of cups and the dough's gentle kneading filled in the quiet hum of reconciliation, life found its way back to Mrs. Hargrove's anxious heart. It was here, beneath the amber glow, that she’d find solace. And with each bite of her scone, she realized she’d been surviving, but now, subtly, sanctuary awaited.