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The doorway is narrow. Mr. Ellis and the driver help Alejandro carefully over the uneven entrance with a portable ramp. You can see his jaw tighten from discomfort, but he says nothing. When his chair rolls into your small kitchen, the room seems to shrink around him.
There is no marble.
No crystal.
No winter garden.
Just you, flour on your cheek, an old oven, and trays of bread cooling beside the window.
Alejandro looks around quietly.
Not with pity.
That matters.
He looks the way someone looks at a place where something real happens.
“This is your bakery,” he says.
You laugh softly. “This is my kitchen.”
“No,” he says. “This is your bakery before the world catches up.”
You turn away quickly so he does not see your face.
He stays for two hours.
He watches you shape empanadas. He asks questions about ingredients, timing, costs, permits, routes, customer habits, packaging, margins. At first, you answer shyly. Then you realize he is not making conversation.
He is studying your business.
Really studying it.
“How many pieces can you produce in one morning?” he asks.
“On this stove? Maybe sixty if nothing goes wrong.”
“How many could you sell?”
You hesitate.
“All of them. More, probably. People ask, but I run out.”
“What stops you from making more?”
You look around the kitchen.
“Everything.”
He nods.
Not dismissively.
Understanding.