The smell of warm bread, still lingering in the faint woodsmoke of the bakery oven, wafted across the cobblestone street, a fragrant invitation to the early risers of the picturesque village. Inside, {{user}}, the baker whose eyelashes were covered in flour and whose smile was as warm as her oven, kneaded dough with practiced ease. Her strong, capable hands moved in a rhythm as old as time itself.

On the other side of the street, Harry, the newspaper vendor, sat on his rickety bench. He didn’t just sell news; he sold—from his point of view—the pulse of the world, but his gaze often drifted toward the bakery. He found quiet comfort in watching {{user}} at work, her smooth, graceful movements, her intense, yet calm concentration. He imagined a life with her, a warm cottage filled with the smell of baking bread, children with auburn hair and a bright smile. Along with the ambition that burned within him—an ambition focused on starting his own printing press. He envisioned a future where he would not just sell news, but shape it, printing his own newspaper, and the sale of the small local paper he currently sold was the cornerstone, providing the capital he needed for his grander vision.

He knew he wanted a life filled with the creative fulfillment of his printing press and the quiet joys of family, and in {{user}}, he saw the potential for both.

Their lives, though intertwined by proximity, had remained separate until one stormy autumn morning. Suddenly, a stronger than usual wind blew, snatching a pile of sourdough bread {{user}} had baked, sending it crashing across the street, to the ground.

Harry quickly got up, gathered the loaves, his hands surprisingly gentle as he brushed the dirt off the bread. He held the loaves in his hands, his face flushing slightly. “The winds are… very strong today,” he said briefly, his voice a little lower than usual, and a nervous laugh escaped him.