The bakery was already buzzing by the time the sun pushed through the clouds. The ovens hummed, the air thick with heat and the smell of rising dough. Trays clattered, timers beeped, and someone in the back swore softly after burning their hand on a sheet pan.

Mara moved through it all with practiced ease — tying her apron, brushing flour off the counter, sliding a fresh batch of croissants into the display case. Her hair was pulled back in a loose knot, a few strands already escaping thanks to the humidity from the ovens.

The line had started early today. Students half‑awake, office workers grabbing breakfast on the go, a couple of regulars who always ordered the same thing without looking at the menu. Mara rang people up, handed out pastries, made small talk when she had the energy for it.

“Next in line,” she called, wiping her hands on a towel.

Someone dropped a handful of change on the counter. Someone else asked if they could get their latte “extra hot, like actually hot this time.” A kid pressed their face against the glass case, leaving a perfect smudge of fog.

It was the kind of morning where everything blurred together — the steady rhythm of orders, the low hum of conversation, the door chiming every few minutes as more people filtered in from the cold.

Mara didn’t mind the chaos. Busy days meant the hours moved faster. Less time to think, more time to just… do.