Fiction! A time when I felt happy

Rain lashed against the bakery window, blurring the world outside into a watercolor painting of greys and browns. Inside, however, the air hummed with warmth and the promise of something sweet. Maya, perched on a stool by the counter, watched her grandfather, Papa Fernando, sprinkle flour over a mound of dough with a practiced flick of his wrist. The rhythmic tapping of dough against the counter was a familiar lullaby, one that soothed her worries and filled her with a warmth that had nothing to do with the wood-fired oven glowing in the back.

Happiness, for Maya, wasn't a singular, earth-shattering moment. It was a collection of these tiny moments – the intoxicating aroma of cinnamon and sugar, the gentle rise and fall of Papa Fernando's chest as he kneaded, the way the flour dusted his white beard like powdered sugar. Today, however, there was an undercurrent of tension in the air, a worry line etched deep between Papa Fernando's brows that rivaled any flour crease.
"Papa," Maya began, her voice barely a whisper above the drumming rain. "Is everything alright?"

Papa Fernando sighed, a sound like the release of a tightly wound spring. He patted the dough affectionately and wiped a stray bit of flour from his nose. "The annual Pastéis de Nata competition is just a week away, mija. This year, the pressure feels… different."
Pastéis de Nata, the delicate Portuguese custard tarts his bakery was famed for, were more than just pastries to Papa Fernando. They were a legacy, a taste of his childhood in Portugal, handed down from his own grandfather. Winning the competition, held year after round at the local farmer's market, was a point of immense pride. Not winning… well, Maya didn't like to see the thought cloud his normally sunny face.

"Don't worry, Papa," Maya declared, her chin jutting out with a confidence that belied her ten years. "We'll make the best Pastéis de Nata ever! We always do."
Papa Fernando smiled, a flicker of warmth returning to his eyes. "We do, don't we? You, mija, are my secret ingredient."

The following days were a whirlwind of activity. Maya helped crack countless eggs, her tiny hands surprisingly adept at separating yolk from white. She stirred vanilla extract with a wooden spoon that was taller than her, giggling as she inevitably splattered sticky drops on her nose. Papa Fernando, his weathered hands moving with practiced ease, taught her the art of rolling out the perfect pastry dough, thin enough to hold the light but strong enough to cradle the creamy custard.

Each evening, they'd gather around the kitchen table, Papa Fernando guiding Maya's hand as she sketched out designs for their presentation. This year, Maya suggested a design inspired by the rain. Delicate sugar swirls would mimic the raindrops, while tiny, piped yellow stars would peek from between, symbolizing the sun waiting to break through the clouds.
The day of the competition arrived, grey and damp, mirroring the previous week. Maya clutched Papa Fernando's hand as they navigated the bustling market. The air was thick with the aroma of competing bakeries – buttery croissants, gingerbread cookies, and yes, the unmistakable scent of vanilla and cinnamon.

Their booth was a riot of yellow and blue, the colors of the Portuguese flag. Maya stood proudly beside her grandfather, pointing out their rain-themed Pastéis de Nata to curious onlookers.

As the afternoon wore on, a line began to form in front of their stall. People took a bite, their eyes widening in surprise before melting into contented smiles. Maya's chest swelled with pride. This was it. This was happiness.

Finally, the judges arrived, a group of stern-faced men in crisp white aprons. They sampled each competitor's offering, their expressions unreadable. The silence stretched on, making Maya feel like the rain outside had seeped into her very bones.
Then, one of the judges, a man with a bushy mustache, broke into a wide grin. "These," he declared, gesturing towards their Pastéis de Nata, "are exceptional. Not only are they perfectly balanced in flavor, but the presentation is truly inspired."
And then, the announcement came. First place - Fernando's Bakery!

A wave of elation washed over Maya. She jumped into Papa Fernando's arms, tears welling up in her eyes. Around them, cheers erupted, and soon congratulations filled the air.
Later that evening, as they packed away their remaining pastries, a quiet satisfaction settled over them. Maya snuggled closer to Papa Fernando, the scent of cinnamon clinging to their clothes like a comforting blanket.
"You see, mija," Papa Fernando said, his voice thick with emotion, "sometimes, the best happiness comes from sharing your gift with others."
Maya nodded, understanding dawning in her eyes. Happiness wasn'