It’s not like I was expecting Seu Romário Molina, who was Grandma’s lifelong enemy, to send a flower wreath to the cemetery, but how dare they be this showy tonight? I feel like marching across the street to scream at them, but the headlights of Salt’s fusquinha shining down the street stop me. Mom’s getting home, and she must be worried about me. I took off from the cemetery without letting her know.

Mom gets out of the sunshine-yellow car, the same color as Salt’s facade, but instead of taking the side door that leads up to our apartment, she hurries straight for the bakery’s entrance without noticing me.

When Grandma was hospitalized one month ago, Mom had to close doors, so it’s like Salt’s been waiting for Grandma to come back home. But how can we reopen without her? There’s no Salt without Grandma.

Mom hesitates to unlock the door.

The wind picks up, ruffling her hair and bringing down a slanted drizzle. The fluttering flags my neighbors have already fastened to celebrate St. John’s Day in two months, multicolored like a rainbow, snap from strings above our heads.

I didn’t realize I took a tentative step forward until Mom looks at me. And I see the hurt in her eyes.

I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what to say.

Without a word, Mom turns the key and steps into Salt, immediately finding her apron just by reaching into the semidarkness hiding the wall pegs. Muscle memory. Only then Mom switches the lights on. And the bakery reveals itself.

I take my first step into Salt, too. My first time in the bakery without Grandma.

And seeing all the things that have already changed without Grandma’s care hurts. Everything seems so dull. The wooden surfaces lack a coating of the lustrous peroba oil Grandma loved to use, which gave the bakery a subtle woodsy smell. The silence, absent of Grandma’s chatter with neighbors, is heavy. Even all the ingredients to Grandma’s magic are gone, the glass jars that should have been filled with various flours—tapioca, wheat, corn, rice—sitting empty. Same as the display below the main counter.

My heart does a painful somersault, but I hold back tears. I don’t want Mom to see.

She goes to stand in front of Great-grandma Elisa’s fubá cake recipe like she’s answering a summons. We keep the sheet of paper with the ingredients and instructions folded and protected behind a glass box on the wall like it’s Salt’s own beating heart.

My legs feel heavier than normal, but I go stand next to Mom.

I don’t know what to say or do to comfort her.

She closes her eyes. Is she praying? So I close mine, too, and in my mind’s eye, I try to revive Salt.