The bakery smelled warm.
Sweet bread. Fresh pastries. Sugar in the air.
Inside — people laughed, talked, ordered.
Outside — a boy stood barefoot on the pavement.
Watching.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t knock.
Just stared through the glass.
At the cakes.
At the trays.
At the small plate someone left unfinished.
“Are you going to order something?” a customer asked jokingly.
The boy didn’t answer.
The woman behind the counter noticed.
“Hey,” she called.
“You can’t stand there all day.”
The boy looked up.
“I’m not,” he said quietly.
“Then what do you want?” she asked.
He hesitated.
Then stepped closer to the door.
“Can I just smell them?” he asked.
A few people smiled.
Someone shook their head.
“That’s not how this works,” the woman replied.
The boy nodded.
“I know.”
Silence.
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t beg.
Just stood there.
Then leaned slightly closer to the glass.
And spoke.
So quietly… only she heard it.
“My mom used to bring me here.”
The woman froze.
“…What?”
The boy looked at the display.
“She said this place smells like home.”
The noise inside the bakery faded.
The woman stared at him.
“I haven’t seen her in three days,” he added.
Soft.
Calm.
Not dramatic.
That’s what made it worse.
A man near the counter stopped chewing.
The woman’s hands tightened slightly.
“…What’s her name?” she asked.
The boy looked up.
And said it.
The woman’s face changed instantly.
Her breath caught.
Because that name—
was written on a small order ticket still sitting behind the counter.
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