Sophie stood before the peeling door with the faded sign ‘Cosy Café’. The letters were crooked, with one ‘e’ hanging on for dear life. By the entrance—dry lilac bushes, a rubbish bin, and a pair of pigeons soaking up the autumn sun.
«Well, hello, new life,» she muttered, sliding the key into the lock.
Her new life smelled of damp, mould, and old spices. Sophie sneezed, opened the windows, sighed—and got to work.
«You’ve lost your mind!» Her friend Lucy’s voice crackled through the phone. «You bought a café? In that area? Did losing your job scramble your brain?»
«Better to bake buns than count someone else’s money,» Sophie said, wiping down the tables. «Besides, I always dreamed of this. Remember Gran’s place?»
«I remember. But dreams are one thing—this… shed is another.»
«It’s not a shed. It’s my bakery.»
She named it *Marmalade Bread* after her grandmother, who always baked cinnamon rolls with grated orange zest. In winter, the house had smelled of oranges and fresh dough. Sophie wanted that warmth back.
The first week, no customers came. The café stood on the outskirts, where only those who knew the shortcuts passed. Sophie woke at five, kneaded dough, baked, cleaned, tested recipes. The scents of cinnamon and vanilla mingled with coffee. She placed a vase of oranges on the windowsill and stuck a sign on the glass: *Step inside—you won’t regret it.*
«Gran, help me out here,» she whispered, covering a fresh batch of swirls.
As if in answer, that same evening, Mrs. Wilkins from next door walked in.
«Are you the one baking these buns? Smelled ’em down the street. Let’s have a taste.»
Sophie handed her a roll. Mrs. Wilkins squinted, chewed, and nodded.
«Proper. I’ll bring the girls tomorrow for a game of rummy. You keep the coffee coming.»
The next day, the ‘girls’ arrived—three old women with lifetimes of gossip. A week later, three students wandered in. Then a delivery driver, then a mother with a pram. Word spread through the neighbourhood—quietly but surely.
Sophie updated the sign. Instead of *Cosy Café*, it now read: *The Orange Peel Bakery*. A student named James helped.
«Are you a designer?»
«Not yet. Still studying. But your buns are heavenly. The sign should match.»
For the first time in ages, Sophie felt needed. That evening, James brought his girlfriend, Emma, a photographer. «We’ll set up your socials.» Sophie nearly cried.
«Hello.» A familiar voice sent a chill through her. «Soph—»
She turned. There stood Alex. Her ex. The same one who’d left ‘to think things over’ a year ago—straight into a colleague’s bed.
«What are you doing here?» Her voice was brittle.
«I… heard you opened a café. Wanted to see.»
«Seen enough? Bye.»
«Wait. We were togeth—»
«You once called me boring. Miss it now, do you?»
He smirked.
«Not that. Just… I heard you invested. You know, since we’re still technically married, anything you own is joint property.»
«Are you serious?»
«I’d rather avoid drama. But maybe we can sort something? I’ll help with repairs, take a small cut—»
Sophie silently untied her apron, walked to the door, and swung it wide.
«Alex, the door’s right there. Walk through it. And don’t come back.»
He stepped toward her, but Mrs. Wilkins and her friends appeared in the doorway.
«Oy, who’s causing trouble? Hop it, lad. This is ladies’ hour.»
Alex muttered and left.
«Who was that?» one friend asked.
«An ex. Came for a handout.»
«Cheek of it,» Mrs. Wilkins snorted, snatching another bun.
«Sophie,» her mother called later. «What’s this I hear? Alex rang. Says you yelled at him.»
«Mum, he came demanding a share of the bakery. Is that normal to you?»
«He was your husband. Almost. Maybe you’ll reconcile. You’re not getting younger—»
«Mum, I built this myself. From nothing. And I’m happy. Can’t you just be glad for me?»
«I worry. A café in that area, a divorce, barely any savings—this isn’t living.»
«It’s *my* life, Mum. And I chose it.»
«Suit yourself. When you fail, don’t call.»
Sophie hung up. Sat in the kitchen, staring into an empty mug.
«Can I come in?» Emma peeked in. «We finished the shoot… Are you crying?»
Sophie wiped her cheek.
«No. Just remembering. Gran used to say, ‘If the dough sticks, wait. It’s not ready yet.'»
«You’re strong, Soph. Truly. We’ve got you.»
Emma hugged her, then handed over her phone.
«Look. We posted the first photos. Already a hundred followers.»
By spring, the queue for orange rolls stretched around the corner. New treats appeared—poppyseed twists, almond crescents, apple strudel. The bakery thrived.
One evening, a knock came.
«Hello?» An older man stood there, holding flowers.
«Emma’s father. My girl’s moved to Edinburgh but kept raving about you. Retired baker, twiddling my thumbs. Fancy an extra pair of hands?»
Sophie nodded.
Now, each morning, they kneaded dough together. He told stories; she listened and learned. New faces drifted in—some to eat, others just to hide from the world.
«Sophie, hi,» Lucy called again. «Been thinking… maybe I should quit that dead-end accounting job too?»
«Like baking?»
«Love it. Got room for me?»
Sophie glanced around the freshly painted space. The bustling tables. The scent of oranges in the air. The folder full of expansion plans.
«Only if you buy your own apron.»
And she laughed.
Warm spring rain pattered outside. The bakery lived. People came—and stayed. For the first time, Sophie wasn’t afraid of the future.
Because now, she had the present.