The next morning, I didn’t update my résumé.

I made a call.

Weeks later, we stood side by side behind a small folding table at the weekend market, our hands dusted with flour, our nerves buzzing with hope. Her recipes. My experience. One borrowed oven. One shared belief that food could still mean something.

People came for the bread.

They stayed for the warmth.

Losing my job felt like the end of something—but it wasn’t. It was the moment the path shifted, quietly, without asking permission.

That old box didn’t bring luck the way people talk about luck.

It brought connection.

And sometimes, that’s the beginning that changes everything.

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