It was supposed to be Isabelle's days off from work but she had taken it upon herself to come into work and try and forget about, trying to remember what had happened the night before. The door to the Bakery was pulled open before walking in, giving a silent wave to Mr. Thomas who was sliding a fresh batch of cinnamon raisin bread into the glass case window. Isabelle had been coming to this place since she had been born, her mother practically lived in the place for the last four months of her pregnancy. It perhaps was a bit of fate that she now worked in the place that held so many memories, even some that only she and Mr. Thomas knew about. So many times she had come to the shop early in the morning or after school to ask questions; how something was made, what the differences were in pans and baking temperatures. Even the day that she had been accepted into The Art Institute, after telling her parents she had gone straight to the shop to show off her letter. Isabelle always would remember how Mr Thomas looked at her with such pride as if she was his own daughter, giving her a hug that spoke of the bound they had formed through years of questions and teaching her tricks of the trade. If the man had his choice he would leave the place to her, but for now it was going to a son who was about thirty-five years old who was in and out of town.<br/><br/>Mr. Thomas gave her a look before just gesturing her back towards the kitchen, knowing in his own way that she needed and wanted to simply bake something. A nod and a smile was given to the man before making her way to the kitchen. A few coworkers were greeted along with Mrs. Thomas. Isabelle remembered when she had returned a little over a year ago, asking for a job. Other offers had been from other places and people in parts so far away from Elliquiy. Then she had gotten the job and dyed the ends of her hair a shade of pink, making people wonder about her. But Isabelle was the best example of not judging a person on appearances and assumptions.<br/><br/>Straight to a mixing bowl she moved with a bag of flour and sugar, beginning to make a batch of cupcakes in silence. This was her therapy, her religion, her way; the way of the baker. How happiness and pleasure could be crafted for others with such ease. A treat could brighten a persons day, put the 'icing on the cake'  for the perfect day, invoke a smile even when all a person wanted to do was cry. Food was one way to the soul, to trying to understand a person and make them feel better. Soon enough a new creation found its way into the oven, the smell beginning to flow throughout the whole bakery.<br/><br/>Soon enough the cupcakes were pulled from the oven and allowed to cool, while Isabelle began on the frosting.  A small bit of vanilla, larger bit of lemon and a touch of yellow food coloring among other ingredients. Frosting was finished and the task of frosting the cupcakes was begun, a piping bag, bowl of fresh blueberries and small bowl of fresh lemon zest. Every single cupcake was treated as a work of art, getting the respect and love that each deserved. When the last one had been finish Isabelle took the batch to the window and set them up for display, hoping that someone would see them and simply smile and have a much better than they were before.<br/><br/>(http://farm7.staticflickr.com/6139/5979622299_fdbef6a301_z.jpg)