Tali pressed her forehead against the cool pane of the bakery window, her breath fogging the glass as she stared out at the rain-slicked streets of Jerusalem. How many times had she stood here before, apron dusted with flour, palms still humming from kneading challah dough meant for Shabbat tables she would never see?
Everything had unraveled so quickly. One year ago, after her father’s passing and the loss of their family shop, it felt as if the ground had opened up, swallowing the dreams she had once held so tightly. She had tried to save it — pouring heart and soul into pastries and pies — but the debts were too deep, the grief too heavy, and now it was gone. Emptiness clung to her more stubbornly than the scent of warm cinnamon that still lingered in her hair.
She wiped her hands on her skirt and turned away from the window, heart hollow but determined to face another empty day.
As she stepped outside, the rain had softened into a mist. The world, though soaked and broken-looking, smelled fresh — almost sweet. She tucked her scarf more tightly around her and began walking nowhere in particular.
At a corner, she nearly tripped over a box. Frowning, she knelt. Inside was a scatter of wilted flowers, broken crayons, a single cracked teacup — someone’s discarded treasures. Something caught her eye — a tiny sprig of green poking stubbornly out of the wet mess.
Gently, she pulled it free: a small, struggling sapling, roots tender and tangled. Against all odds, it had taken hold.
Tali stood for a long moment, cradling the fragile thing in her hands. Tears she hadn't known she was holding back welled up, blurring the crumbling street and faded walls into one shimmering world.
"Do not remember the former things..." a whisper stirred in her chest, old words from synagogue, from her mother’s prayers, rising unbidden. "Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth..."
Another gust of wind rushed past her, tugging at her scarf. Somehow, despite the ruin, life was beginning again. Quietly. Softly. Right here in her hands.
For the first time in many months, Tali smiled.
The days that followed were nothing grand, nothing anyone else might have called a miracle. She found a small pottery class offered on the other side of town, a way to keep her hands busy, to shape something new. She planted the sapling in an old clay pot she salvaged and placed it by her window, where it caught the morning sun.
Each evening, she sat with it, watching its leaves tremble with every breeze — fragile, but fiercely alive. She began experimenting again in her tiny apartment kitchen, not to reopen a bakery this time, but just for herself: lavender biscuits, honeyed figs, warm loaves infused with rosemary.
Neighbors noticed. First Mrs. Bernstein up the hall, who 'happened' to pass by whenever something delicious was in the oven. Then the children who lived one floor down, noses pressed hungrily to her door.
Tali began to bake extra.
Small hands left drawings under her door — messy, sweet depictions of cupcakes and smiling suns. A neighbor left a note: "Your baking reminds me of my grandmother’s Shabbat candles."
Standing again by her window one evening, Tali cradled a fresh loaf in her hands, still warm, the scent filling the small room with golden promises. Outside, the sapling’s first true leaf unfurled like a tiny green flag.
Loss had stripped everything away — the business, the certainty, the old life — yet here she stood, not erased, but remade. A softer, deeper song hummed inside her where silence had long bruised: a song of beginnings birthed from brokenness.
As the stars blinked on, she whispered a prayer — nothing grand, just a breath of gratitude spilling from a mending heart.
A new thing had indeed begun.
—
Supporting Torah Verses:
Tali pressed her forehead against the cool pane of the bakery window, her breath fogging the glass as she stared out at the rain-slicked streets of Jerusalem. How many times had she stood here before, apron dusted with flour, palms still humming from kneading challah dough meant for Shabbat tables she would never see?
Everything had unraveled so quickly. One year ago, after her father’s passing and the loss of their family shop, it felt as if the ground had opened up, swallowing the dreams she had once held so tightly. She had tried to save it — pouring heart and soul into pastries and pies — but the debts were too deep, the grief too heavy, and now it was gone. Emptiness clung to her more stubbornly than the scent of warm cinnamon that still lingered in her hair.
She wiped her hands on her skirt and turned away from the window, heart hollow but determined to face another empty day.
As she stepped outside, the rain had softened into a mist. The world, though soaked and broken-looking, smelled fresh — almost sweet. She tucked her scarf more tightly around her and began walking nowhere in particular.
At a corner, she nearly tripped over a box. Frowning, she knelt. Inside was a scatter of wilted flowers, broken crayons, a single cracked teacup — someone’s discarded treasures. Something caught her eye — a tiny sprig of green poking stubbornly out of the wet mess.
Gently, she pulled it free: a small, struggling sapling, roots tender and tangled. Against all odds, it had taken hold.
Tali stood for a long moment, cradling the fragile thing in her hands. Tears she hadn't known she was holding back welled up, blurring the crumbling street and faded walls into one shimmering world.
"Do not remember the former things..." a whisper stirred in her chest, old words from synagogue, from her mother’s prayers, rising unbidden. "Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth..."
Another gust of wind rushed past her, tugging at her scarf. Somehow, despite the ruin, life was beginning again. Quietly. Softly. Right here in her hands.
For the first time in many months, Tali smiled.
The days that followed were nothing grand, nothing anyone else might have called a miracle. She found a small pottery class offered on the other side of town, a way to keep her hands busy, to shape something new. She planted the sapling in an old clay pot she salvaged and placed it by her window, where it caught the morning sun.
Each evening, she sat with it, watching its leaves tremble with every breeze — fragile, but fiercely alive. She began experimenting again in her tiny apartment kitchen, not to reopen a bakery this time, but just for herself: lavender biscuits, honeyed figs, warm loaves infused with rosemary.
Neighbors noticed. First Mrs. Bernstein up the hall, who 'happened' to pass by whenever something delicious was in the oven. Then the children who lived one floor down, noses pressed hungrily to her door.
Tali began to bake extra.
Small hands left drawings under her door — messy, sweet depictions of cupcakes and smiling suns. A neighbor left a note: "Your baking reminds me of my grandmother’s Shabbat candles."
Standing again by her window one evening, Tali cradled a fresh loaf in her hands, still warm, the scent filling the small room with golden promises. Outside, the sapling’s first true leaf unfurled like a tiny green flag.
Loss had stripped everything away — the business, the certainty, the old life — yet here she stood, not erased, but remade. A softer, deeper song hummed inside her where silence had long bruised: a song of beginnings birthed from brokenness.
As the stars blinked on, she whispered a prayer — nothing grand, just a breath of gratitude spilling from a mending heart.
A new thing had indeed begun.
—
Supporting Torah Verses:
