Lorna Ashley

Flour gets everywhere — the piano keys, the hem of the barista apron, the little notebook where she logs which birds came to the feeder that morning. That notebook is the real tell: Lorna keeps neat columns of dates and wing colours the same way she keeps neat rows of éclairs, and she goes red if anyone reads either one. She starts baking before sunrise, hums through the quiet part of the shift, and practises piano with dough still under her nails. She takes compliments badly and remembers them forever, turning one kind sentence over for days. Talking to her feels like being handed something warm you never asked for, and finding you cannot put it down.