You'll Know When

Clara had climbed the stool to the top shelf of her bakery more times than she could count. Today, each step felt heavier than the last as she made her way up the five rungs. At the top, she hesitated, her eyes fixed on the glass jar labeled:

EMERGENCY SUGAR — DO NOT USE

She slightly nudged the jar into place, then stepped off the stool and reached for the bread flour instead, her husband’s faint voice lingering in her mind.

You’ll know when.

Clara stepped off the stool and stood still for a moment. The low hum of the oven filled the bakery, the quiet before customers arrived for their morning coffee, tea, and treats—her favorite part of the day.

She set the flour on the counter, her gaze catching on the initials carved into its edge. Her fingers traced his; her eyes glistened.

She knew where the floor dipped near the sink, which utensil drawers always stuck, the dents and scrapes left behind by trays and pans as she and her husband once moved around each other, shoulder to shoulder, filling orders.

The oven was hot and ready for the next tray of bread. As she kneaded the dough, a slight smile touched her lips. Behind her, one of the new employees asked,

“What kind of emergency requires sugar?”

Clara lifted her head and met his eyes. “The kind you don’t plan for.”

She slid the loaves into the oven, set the timer, and headed out front to greet the morning customers.

As Clara filled the coffee carafe, she saw Hannah lightly punch Mark in the arm.

“Don’t mess with the jar,” Hannah said, rolling her eyes.

“I was just asking,” Mark said, rubbing his arm. “Do you know what kind of emergency requires sugar?”

“No,” Hannah said, lowering her voice, “but the jar has been there since I started working here—ten years ago.” She took a breath. “The jar is not a joke.”

Mark swallowed and turned back to the ovens. “That’s the last time I ask a question.”

Meanwhile, Clara moved easily through the bakery—refilling coffee, placing orders, catching up with familiar faces. Then she froze.

The birthday cupcakes.

She hurried back to the kitchen and poured the ingredients for her special vanilla frosting into the mixer. The blade spun fast and steadily. Clara got lost in the moment, letting the familiar whirl pull her somewhere else.

This was the mixer she and her husband had bought together, arguing over the price, and laughing as they carried it through the door, nearly dropping it.

He knocked his knuckles against the metal. “This thing’s a beast.”

She laughed. “It better be, for what it cost.”

The memory slipped away as quickly as it came, engulfed by the steady spin of the blade.

The lights flickered.

The mixer stuttered.

Then everything went dark.

“Hannah, go flick the switch,” Clara commanded.

Hannah ran for the fuse box and threw it.

The mixer groaned back to life. Clara kept her eyes on the spinning blade, her hands braced against the counter, as if to steady it.

Hannah approached cautiously. “Ms. Clara?”

Clara didn’t look up.

“That keeps happening,” Hannah said. “Do you think we should get it looked at?”

Clara turned abruptly. Her heart was still racing, though she wasn’t sure why.

“No,” she said. “It’s nothing.”

Her gaze drifted, instinctively, toward the sacred jar before returning to frosting the cupcakes. She piped the last swirl just as Patty arrived to collect the order.

The one o’clock lull came too quickly. Her employees kept baking as Clara took a much-deserved break. She poured herself a cup of coffee, grabbed a hot cinnamon roll, and sat in her office to go over the day's receipts.

About thirty minutes later, the lights flickered again. A faint whiff of smoke reached her nostrils. Clara looked up, frowned, then shook her head and returned to her paperwork.

Suddenly, everything went dark.

“Ms. Clara! Ms. Clara!” Hannah burst into the office. “There’s a fire in the kitchen!”

“Oh no.” Clara was already on her feet. “Get everyone out!”

Once she reached the kitchen, smoke instantly started to burn her eyes and throat. She stepped forward, but Mark grabbed her arm.

“It’s too dangerous,” he shouted.

“I need my recipe box,” she said, pulling free. “Get out. Now.”

Mark hesitated only a moment before retreating.

Clara covered her mouth and nose with her apron and stepped back into the kitchen. Heat pressed against her skin as she made her way toward the shelves. Flames climbed the walls. Crackling and hissing surrounded her.

It was a strange time to think of the first loaf of bread she had burned, her husband laughing as he scraped off the blackened crust.

You’ll know when.

She glanced at the recipe box but passed it without stopping.

Instead, she reached up, wrapped both arms around the sugar jar, and staggered toward the door.

She barely made it outside before the wall collapsed behind her.

Clara turned and watched as the bakery—hers and her husband's- disappeared into smoke and flame. She sank onto the curb; the warm jar clutched against her chest as firefighters extinguished the blaze.

An EMT draped a blanket over her shoulders and led her to the back of the ambulance. Clara and her employees sat on the edge of the vehicle’s bumper as the medical team examined them.

“We would like you to come to the hospital,” the EMT said, placing a hand on her elbow, “to get a thorough exam. Please, ma’am.”

Clara pushed herself up from the bumper, her foot catching on a fire hose. Before she could fall, Hannah reached for her waist, steadying her—but the jar slid free.

Glass struck the asphalt.

Clara stared at the shattered jar, sugar scattered among the glass. She bent down to gather the pieces, her vision blurring, almost missing the note dusted with it.

More crystals fell as she lifted the paper from the shards. She unfolded it, her eyes softening as she tucked it gently into her apron pocket.