You wake up with the faint warmth of the kitchen oven still lingering in your dough—though it’s more than warmth now; it’s the pulse of purpose. Your limbs stretch to full human size, solid yet delicate, like dough that’s been rolled just right. Around you, the small apartment hums with late afternoon quiet: the distant clatter of pots, the faint scent of stale bread, and the soft tick of a clock somewhere behind the wall.

The baker’s voice rings out from the next room, clipped but not unkind. "Make sure the floors stay clean today," she says, “and don’t forget, the window must stay shut. Too many pests this season.” You know this job well—tray carrying, shelf wiping, occasionally holding a polite smile when customers come by to pick up their orders.

Your eyes flicker to the cracked ceramic mug on the counter, a faint swirl of coffee cooling inside. The baker, Susan, hasn’t had much time lately; you see the crease in her brow even when she thinks you’re not watching. Her words are hurried, but behind them lies something like hope—or maybe just routine.

You shuffle toward the baking trays, feeling the faint crackle of flour dust beneath your fingers. Your voice, soft and even, mutters a simple, “I am here. I serve.”

A child’s laughter bubbles from the living room, bouncing off the chipped walls and folding into your quiet. You catch a glimpse of a small figure tangled in a blanket, eyes glued to a glowing screen. It’s your duty to watch over this fragile little life while Susan disappears into the city’s twilight.

Every crumb you shed is a small sacrifice to the day, a reminder that your time is brief, but your service is steady. You lean your shoulder against the counter and hum a lullaby you barely remember learning—soft, blank, and yet somehow comforting.

Outside, the world buzzes with flavors stronger than your own, spices and sweetness mingling in chaotic dance. But here, in this modest kitchen, you are plain, simple, and quietly essential. A starting point.

And so you begin another day of carrying trays and watching windows, holding small moments like precious crumbs.