Ink and Bread on Walnut Street

The smell of cinnamon climbed the stairwell before the sun. Lila paused between the second and third floor to breathe it in, one hand on the cool metal rail, the other balancing a paper bag with yesterday’s proofs. Downstairs, Reina was already humming to the ovens, a low, tuneless sound that knitted itself through the building. The studio door stuck as it always did; Lila bumped it with her hip and shouldered her way into the square room with the tall windows and the hulking shape of the press asleep in the corner like a loyal animal.

“Morning, Stella,” she said to the iron machine. No one else called it anything, but the name had landed in her head during the first week she’d worked alone, and it never left. The platen gleamed dimly. Oil and dust made their own perfume, cut by the sharp, clean scent of solvent and the faint citrus of the hand soap Reina insisted on sending upstairs.

She set the bag on the worktable, tugged the window rope to coax up light and brisk, damp air from the street. Walnut Street was already rattling awake: a delivery van’s cough, a bicycle bell, a pair of teenagers arguing softly over music. Lila tied back her hair with a ribbon that had once been blue, rolled up her sleeves, and set to work. Ink first. She scooped a thumb of crimson from the tin—PMS 185-ish, the client had said—and spread it with a palette knife on the disc. The press hummed as the motor came to life, a careful, elderly hum, respectful of its own history.

She checked the tympan, replaced a worn packing sheet, and pulled yesterday’s wedding proof from the bag. Cream stock. Blind deboss on the names, color on the date. She ran her fingers over the letters and felt the soft dent that only a press like this could give. Irene used to say, “It should be read with the fingertips.” Lila swallowed, looked up at the photograph taped above the type cases: Irene laughing, mouth open wide, eyes squinting at something just to the left of the camera. Lila touched the edge of the photo with an inked thumb before she could stop herself, leaving a small red print.

Her phone buzzed. A text: “Hey Lila, checking if we can move the deposit to next week? Something came up. –D&S.” She stared at it, glanced at the calendar where “RENT” was circled in thick pencil for Friday. The press clanked softly into idle. Lila rubbed the back of her neck and typed back, “Okay! Let me know. Happy to adjust.” It was what she always typed. Then she set the phone face down and adjusted the guides.

The first pull of the morning always felt like taking a breath under water. She fed the sheet, the press kissed the form, and the sheet came back with color. Red, clean, slightly too hot. She held it to the window; the letters shimmered, the paper took on the faintest wave from pressure, and below, someone laughed as a tray hit the counter. Lila smiled and kept going, focusing on the rhythm: feed, press, stack; feed, press, stack. The world reduced itself to paper weight and ink tack and the subtle give of the platen.