The night smells of flour and yeast.
Even before I step inside, the scent drifts out from the small bakery tucked between two quiet shops. It is subtle yet insistent, a warm and yeasty aroma that wraps around the street like a soft blanket. The street itself is dark, quiet, mostly deserted, yet the faint golden light spilling from the bakery’s windows hints at life within. The city sleeps unevenly, but some lives pulse quietly in rhythm with the night.
Inside, the light is soft, golden, welcoming.
The tiles beneath my feet are warm from ovens working steadily. Metal counters gleam faintly in the glow, dusted with flour, smudged with hands that have kneaded and shaped dough for hours. Loaves rise slowly in trays, their surface taut and golden, while racks of pastries glimmer with butter
