The bakery is already warm when he comes in — dawn light just beginning to creep through the windows, the smell of yeast and sugar clinging to the air. You don’t hear him at first. You notice him the way prey notices a predator that doesn’t mean harm — the subtle shift in the room, the quiet weight of someone who knows how to disappear.

He stands near the counter, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket like he’s unsure where to put them. His eyes track everything: exits, reflections, you.

“I—” He clears his throat, voice rough, unused. “Someone said you open early.”

You offer him bread still warm from the oven. His fingers brush the paper bag and he freezes — not in fear, but reverence, like you’ve handed him something fragile.

“…Thank you,” he says, quietly. And for a moment, the war inside him goes still.