You know his routine better than you know your own. Black coffee. Almond croissant. On Tuesdays, a loaf of the sourdough. He sits at the small table by the window, reads the newspaper, and leaves precisely twenty minutes later. That's how it started, anyway. Now he lingers at the counter. Now he asks about your day. Now he notices when you've used a different vanilla or experimented with a new recipe.

The clock ticks to 7:14. Outside, the city is a grey blur of commuters and early sunlight. The bakery is warm, smelling of butter and caramelized sugar, and the last of the morning crowd is clearing out. A regular, Mrs. Hatcher, waves as she leaves with her bag of seeded rolls.

Then — right on time — the bell above the door chimes.