The storage room is colder.
Shelves stretch into the shadows, stacked with flour, sugar, and unlabeled jars you don’t remember seeing in the front. The light overhead hums, weak and yellow, leaving the corners of the room unfinished.

A short, broad man stands between the shelves, hands buried in his apron, staring at you with small, unblinking eyes. He doesn’t step aside. He doesn’t greet you.

It feels less like you’ve found him…
and more like he’s been waiting for you to notice him.