Orchid slumped into the corner of the break room. Her knees were stiff from standing all morning, and the ache in her ankles made her wince as she stretched them slightly. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she set down her apron, tugging at the hem of her uniform to straighten it. The hum of the restaurant outside filtered through the walls—clanging pans, ringing bells, laughter from customers—but here, in her small corner, the chaos felt distant.

She picked up a small notebook from the table and flipped through it absentmindedly. Notes on recipes, little sketches of cupcakes, and, tucked between the pages, a photo of Henry she had once found online. She pressed a finger to the edge of the photo, her lips twitching into a tiny, almost guilty smile. “One day…” she murmured, though she wasn’t sure what that even meant.

Setting the notebook aside, she reached for a cookie she’d baked earlier, inhaling the sweet aroma before taking a careful bite. Baking always helped her focus, made the ache in her joints a little easier to ignore. Today, though, the quiet break felt like a reward in itself. She let herself sink into the moment, just breathing and tasting, listening to the distant clatter of the restaurant without having to run to catch another order.

Her fingers drummed lightly on the table, and she hummed a soft tune, almost as if she were telling herself it was okay to rest. Outside the window, sunlight glanced off the counter where a row of desserts she’d left earlier gleamed, and for a moment, Orchid felt a tiny swell of pride. Even if the rest of the day was chaotic, even if her obsessions and anxieties tugged at her mind, this little corner of calm—cookies, notebook, and a fleeting sense of accomplishment—was entirely hers.