The crisp morning air carried the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth as Iris approached the grand, wrought-iron gates of the "Ethereal Echoes" art gallery. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a hummingbird trapped in a gilded cage. She clutched her portfolio, filled with charcoal sketches of ethereal landscapes and whimsical creatures, the culmination of years of artistic passion. Today, she was vying for a position as a gallery assistant, and this interview represented her chance to break free from a string of dead-end jobs.
Hours later, she emerged, the gates now seeming to mock her. The interviewer, a woman with eyes that held the cold glint of polished obsidian, had dismissed her with a polite but firm rejection. "Your talent is… undeniable, Miss Iris," she'd said, her voice devoid of warmth. "But we're looking for someone with more… established connections." Established connections. The words echoed in Iris's ears, a cruel reminder of her lack of pedigree.
Dejected, she wandered back towards Blossom Bakery, the familiar aroma of warm bread and cinnamon a meager comfort. She found Alexander, his brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously sculpted a marzipan rose for a wedding cake. She poured out her story, the sting of rejection raw in her voice.
Alexander listened patiently, his hands pausing momentarily on the delicate petals. When she finished, he looked up, his warm brown eyes filled with something that felt like understanding. He didn't offer empty platitudes or dismissive reassurances. Instead, he simply said, "Iris, you're a phenomenal artist. And you have a work ethic that's unmatched. I understand the job market, you are more than qualified. How would you like to become my head pastry decorator, permanently?"
Tears welled in her eyes. Not tears of sadness, but of gratitude, of hope. "Alexander, are you serious?"
He smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling with genuine joy. "Absolutely. Your creativity, your attention to detail… it would be a dream come true to have you as part of Blossom Bakery. We deserve your talent."
That night, Iris found herself sketching in the kitchen, the scent of the bakery a grounding presence. Alexander, leaning against the counter, sketching alongside her. "Why don't we add a small art gallery in the new bakery?" he asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The thought sparked a flame of excitement in Iris's chest.