Someone hums in the proofing room

I bake from 10pm to 6am. Henri trained me fourteen years ago, when I could barely shape a baguette. He hummed while he worked, always the same tune, some old chanson he never told me the name of. Flat on the high notes. He'd tap each loaf twice before it went in the oven, like knocking on a door.

He died in August. I took over his shift because nobody else wanted it.

Three weeks ago, around 3:40, I was alone in the back. Mixer off, ovens heating, that deep quiet you only get at that hour. And from the proofing room I heard humming. His tune. Flat on the high notes.

I'm a seeker, not a believer in much yet. I checked the radio (unplugged). I checked the alley door (locked). I checked my own mouth, honestly, because I've caught myself humming it before. Not me.

I stood in the doorway and said, 'Bonsoir, Henri.' The humming stopped. The rack of loaves in there had risen perfectly, better than any batch I've managed since he left.

I tapped each one twice before it went in the oven. I've done it every night since. Whatever that was, I'm choosing to take it as a thank-you for keeping the ovens warm.