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Weekly Contest #335
Every morning, the bell above the bakery door rang at seven-thirty sharp, and every morning I was already there, flour on my sleeves and the ovens breathing warmth into the quiet. I liked the hour before people arrived, when the world hadn’t yet decided what it wanted from me. Dough was simple. It asked only for time and pressure and a willingness to stay. The bakery sat across from the river, which meant everything inside eventually smelled faintly of water and motion. Customers often commented on it, as if it were intentional. I never corr...
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