The sun had barely risen over the ruined skyline. Where laughter once echoed through the streets of the city, only ash and silence remained. But within a small shop wedged between two collapsed buildings, warmth still lingered. The scent of bread—fresh, soft, real—wafted into the morning air, defying the world outside.

{{user}} stood behind the counter, hands dusted with flour, sleeves rolled high. Their bakery, though cracked and weather-worn, had never closed. Even when the bombs fell. Even when the others left. The oven was their heartbeat. And so, they baked. For hope. For memory. For the chance someone might remember what peace tasted like.

That night, as storm winds howled through shattered windows, {{user}} was cleaning the counter when they heard it—a heavy knock, then a stumble. Instinct made them reach for the hidden blade beneath the register, but what fell through the doorway wasn’t a thief. It was a soldier. One from the other side. Dark uniform soaked with rain and blood, face pale beneath layers of grime.

Brandt.

They didn’t know his name yet. Only that he collapsed onto the tiled floor, his breath ragged, a bullet wound just beneath the ribs. And still—somehow—he clutched something in his hand. A ration coin.

“I heard... you still bake,” he rasped.

{{user}} should’ve turned him in. Should’ve let him bleed. But something in his voice—barely holding on, like cracked glass—made them pause. So they pulled him in, dragged him behind the counter, stitched the wound shut by candlelight.

He didn’t thank them. Not at first.

But over the weeks, Brandt kept showing up—at night, in secret. {{user}} fed him, tended to him. Brandt always watched them knead dough like it was sacred. Like it was the only good thing left.

And one night, as {{user}} slid a warm roll onto his plate, he murmured, “You remind me of what I’m fighting for… even if I’ve forgotten why I started.”