(Scarlett’s POV)


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    Two hourster, the kitchen is covered in flour and filled withughter. Twenty–three children. work at their stations, their small hands covered in dough, their faces shining with concentration and joy.


    “Mom Scarlett, look!” Emma holds up her creation – a lopsided rabbit with one ear significantly longer than the other. “I made him special!”


    “He’s perfect,” I tell her, and I mean it. The uneven ears give him character, personality. No machine could have made something so beautifully imperfect.


    At the station beside her, Marcus has abandoned the bunny shape entirely. His dough has been molded into what looks like an elephant,plete with a trunk that curves dramatically


    to one side.


    “I know you said bunnies,” he says, slightly defensive. “But my hands wanted to make this


    instead.”


    “Your hands are very smart,” I say, running my finger along the elephant’s trunk. “This is magnificent.”


    Across the room, ten–year–old Sophie has created an entire zoo. A fox with a bushy tail, a turtle with intricate shell patterns, even what might be a giraffe if you tilt your head just right.


    “I couldn’t pick just <i>one </i>animal,” she exins, her eyes bright with excitement.


    “Look at this one!” Lily calls <i>out</i>, holding up her own creation. She’s been working beside a seven–year–old named David, both of them giggling as they shape their dough. Lily’s looks like a flower, petals carefully formed and arranged around a center knot.


    “It’s beautiful, sweetheart,” I say, kissing the top of her flour–dusted head.


    James appears at my elbow, carrying David’s creation – a shell shape with delicate ridges pressed into the surface with the back of a spoon.


    “This young man has quite the artistic eye,” James says, ruffling David’s hair. The little boy beams under the attention.


    “All the children do,” ir adds, wiping her hands on a towel. She’s been helping the younger kids, and there’s flour in her hair, joy on her face. “Scarlett, this is incredible. Look what you’ve given them.”


    < Chapter 87


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    I turn in a slow circle, taking in the scene. Twenty–three children, each creating something unique and beautiful from the same basic ingredients. No two shapes are alike. No assembly line uniformity. Just pure, unfiltered creativity expressed through bread.


    “They did this,” I say softly. “I just showed them it was possible.”


    “No.” Jasper steps up beside me, his voice warm. “You showed them that their imagination matters. That there’s no wrong way to create something beautiful.”


    At the far end of the kitchen, sixteen–year–old Sarah – one of the older kids who usually acts too cool for group activities – carefully shapes her dough into what looks like a rose. Her movements are precise, deliberate, but there’s something vulnerable in the way she works.


    “Sarah’s been practicing that for an hour,” Sister Margaret whispers <i>to </i>me. “She wants to make something special for her little sister when she visits next week.”


    My eyes fill with tears. This is what Dorian doesn’t understand. What Andrew missedpletely. These children aren’t making bread to maximize profit or increase efficiency. They’re pouring their hearts into flour and water and yeast, creating edible expressions of


    love.


    “Thirty minutes until the first batches out of the oven,” I announce, and the room erupts


    in cheers.


    While we wait, the children clean their stations and share stories about their creations. Emma tells everyone about her special bunny, how the long ear makes him better at hearing people who need help. Marcus exins that his elephant is actually a superhero, with the power to remember every kindness anyone has ever shown him.


    I find myself sitting on the floor with a group of the younger kids, listening to their stories, watching their faces light up as they talk about their bread animals. This is what I’ve been missing, sitting in boardrooms and listening to business advice. This connection, this pure


    joy.


    “Mom Scarlett,” six–year–old Mia tugs on my sleeve. “Will you teach us to make bread every


    week?”


    “Every week,” I promise without hesitation. “As long as you want to learn.”


    The timer goes off, and we carefully pull the first batch from the ovens. The kitchen fills with the most beautiful smell in the world fresh bread made with love and imagination.


    The children gather around as I set the trays on cooling racks. Their creations have puffed up <b>in </b>the oven, some shapes changing slightly, but each one still uniquely theirs.


    < Chapter 87


    “They’re perfect,” Jessica breathes, staring at her fox with wonder.


    “They’re better than perfect,” I say, my voice thick with emotion.


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    As I watch these children admire their handiwork, as I see Lily show off her flower bread to anyone who will look, as I notice James and ir working together to help the smaller kids reach their creations, something clicks into ce.


    This is why I started baking.


    Not for profit margins or expansion ns or industry recognition. For this moment, right here, when flour and water and yeast be vehicles for love, for creativity, for connection.


    I started my bakery because I wanted to feed people’s souls, not just their bodies. I wanted to create something that mattered, something that brought joy into the world.


    Somewhere along the way, I’d almost lost sight of that.


    But watching Marcus carefully wrap his superhero elephant in a clean towel, watching Emma cradle her special–eared bunny like it’s the most precious thing in the world, I remember.


    I remember the first loaf I ever made. How I’d burned the bottom and overproofed the top, but it still tasted better than anything I’ve had before.


    I remember the morning I decided to open Sunrise Bakes, sitting at my kitchen table with Lily sleeping in my arms, sketching out recipes on the back of an envelope. I hadn’t been thinking about profit margins then. I’d been thinking about mornings like this one, when bread bes a bridge between hearts.


    “Are


    <i>you </i>okay?” Jasper asks quietly, appearing beside me.


    “I’m remembering,” I say, watching the childrenpare their creations, each one proudly disying their unique bread art.


    “Remembering what?”


    I turn to face him, feeling something shift inside my chest, settling back into ce like a bone that’s been out of joint for too long.


    “Why I fell in love with baking in the first ce.”


    <i>” </i>


    Violet Moon


    #Vote#!


    ”