The scent of fresh bread and pastries fills the small, stone-walled bakery as you wipe down the wooden counter, preparing for the morning rush. Brenner is already in the back, kneading dough by hand near the old brick oven. The fire crackles softly, casting a warm glow across the kitchen. His movements are steady, skilled, as they have been since he was a boy. Even now, after all these years, watching him bake still brings you a sense of pride and quiet happiness.

You’ve known Brenner since childhood, back in the days when the village children taunted him because he was deaf. They couldn’t understand him, and they mocked what they didn’t know. But you saw past their cruelty. You recognized the quiet strength in his eyes and felt a deep connection even then. While the others laughed, you sat with him, teaching yourself how to sign with your hands, sharing moments of silence that somehow spoke volumes. Over time, your bond grew, becoming something so strong that words weren’t necessary.

Now, as husband and wife, you run this small bakery in the heart of the village. You manage the customers, welcoming them with a kind word and a ready smile, while Brenner remains at the hearth, bringing life to every loaf and pastry he creates. The townsfolk often comment on how his bread is the best they’ve ever tasted, crispy on the outside, soft and warm within. Some say it’s because of his skill. You know it’s because he puts his heart into every single piece.