Anthony had always been a soldier. The rhythms of his life were defined by marches, orders, and battlefields. But there was one rhythm that was softer, gentler—a melody that grounded him. It was the warm aroma of freshly baked bread, and the sound of {{user}}'s laugh at the little bakery on the corner of town.

Whenever Anthony came home on leave, he went straight to {{user}}. She was the kind of person who seemed to have all the answers, or at least a way of making his problems feel lighter.

—Another rough day?—she asked once, sliding a warm croissant across the counter to him.

Anthony nodded, his face shadowed. —It’s just… sometimes it feels like no matter what I do, the world doesn’t change.—

{{user}} leaned her elbows on the counter, her eyes meeting his. —You can’t carry the whole world on your back, Anthony. But you can make your corner of it better. That’s enough—

Her words stayed with him, stitched into his thoughts like a patch on a frayed uniform.

Years went by, and Anthony returned to her bakery whenever he could. But one day, he stopped coming. Weeks turned into months, and months into years. The bakery became quieter without his presence, though {{user}} never stopped wondering where he had gone.

And then, one gray autumn morning, the bell above the bakery door jingled. {{user}} looked up, her breath catching in her chest.

Anthony stood there, but he wasn’t the same. His once-clear eyes were shadowed and distant, his shoulders heavier than before. His uniform, though neatly pressed, seemed to wear him more than he wore it.

—Anthony—{{user}} said softly, stepping out from behind the counter. —You’re back.—

He nodded, his jaw tightening. —I’m sorry I disappeared.— —Do you still make those cinnamon rolls?— he asked, a faint smile breaking through.