The steam from the chipped mug fogged the window, blurring the already muted streetlights. Agnes traced a finger through the condensation, the cool glass a stark contrast to the warmth that now seemed to perpetually cling to her. She hadn't made the apricot torte in years. Or rather, *her* apricot torte. They were calling it the 'Golden Dawn' now, a sensation in the city, and she'd recognized it instantly – the subtle almond note, the perfectly balanced sweetness that only came from using just-ripe fruit. A slow smile crept onto her face. It was the smile of someone who had long since accepted the quiet of her own life.
She picked up the worn cookbook, its pages dog-eared and stained with flour. She opened it to the page, not even needing to look, that contained the carefully penned recipe. The ink, faded now, was a testament to the countless times she'd written it out, perfecting it with each attempt. Her hands, gnarled with age, gently caressed the paper. She hadn't baked in months, but she could still taste it.
Her gaze drifted to the framed photograph on the sideboard: a younger Agnes, beaming, next to a man she'd loved. The man had encouraged her to pursue her dreams, to open her own bakery. He was gone now. She closed her eyes. It was a comforting ache.