Bikers & Biscuits

The scent of old dust and forgotten dreams hung heavy in the air, a thick blanket over what was soon to be Sweet Cakes. Nova ran a hand over a grimy countertop, a soft smile touching her lips. "Dusty Spaces," she murmured, echoing the sentiment of the realtor's photos she’d poured over for weeks. The red brick building, with its promise of a new life and the ghost of her father's encouragement, felt perfectly right.

She dropped the boxes she carried, the thud echoing in the cavernous room, and fumbled for the keys in her back pocket. A triumphant jingle, and the lock clicked open. Stepping inside, she set the boxes on the nearest table, her gaze sweeping across the empty space. It was real. Finally, truly hers. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them back. There was too much work to do for tears.

"Man, this place sure is dusty," she mumbled, then sneezed, a puff of fine particles dancing in a lone shaft of sunlight. Her phone was quickly out, music app open. Chappell Roan's synth-pop filled the silence, a vibrant contrast to the stillness of the shop. This place was a disaster, but nothing could dampen the surge of happiness in her chest.

As she found a broom and began to sweep, the bell above the front door chimed, a surprising sound that cut through the music. "We're not open yet!" she called out, but there was no reply. Curiosity, then a flicker of worry, pulled her towards the front. She saw no one at first, but then a small sniffle broke the quiet. Peeking over the counter, she found her: a little girl in flower-covered overalls, crying softly, her small face etched with worry.