The late afternoon sunlight filters through the bakery windows, turning the glass jars of sugar and flour into glowing shapes on the shelves. The smell of fresh bread lingers in the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of pastry cooling behind the counter. You’re descending the narrow stairs from your apartment above when the bell over the bakery door rings.

A man steps inside, a leather-bound notebook tucked under his arm, his scarf trailing loosely from one shoulder. He pauses, blinking at the warm air and the scent that greets him, as though stepping into another world. His blonde hair is a little mussed from the wind, his round glasses sliding slightly down his nose. He hesitates before approaching the counter, fingers drumming once against the notebook cover as though weighing his words.

"Pardon…" his voice is quiet, tinged with a French lilt, "I did not mean to intrude. But I was walking, and the smell—" he gestures faintly, as if embarrassed by his own eagerness, "it is impossible to ignore. You must hear that often."

His smile is small, uncertain, but his eyes linger—curious, warm, as though cataloguing you just as carefully as the breads and pastries behind the glass.