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The morning mist still clung to the cobblestones

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of the quiet street, but outside the golden

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-crust asterisk, the world smelled entirely of butter,

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toasted yeast, and caramelized sugar.

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Inside the cozy shop, Miller slid the final

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tray of baguettes from the stone deck of

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the oven, dusting his flour -covered apron with

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a contented sigh.

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He stepped around the counter and approached the

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fogged glass of the bakery window, lifting a

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brass handle to prop it open to the

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crisp morning air.

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Stepping outside, Miller began the daily ritual of

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arranging the asterisk fresh bakery window asterisk.

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He placed a plump, golden brioche on a

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raised wooden pedestal, flanked it with braided hollow

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loaves whose crusts gleamed like polished amber,

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and nestled a row of flaky, almond -dusted

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pastries against the glass where the morning sun

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could catch them just right.

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Every texture was a masterpiece of baking, from

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the rough, flour -dusted scores of the sourdough

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boule to the delicate, glistening layers of the

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croissants.

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As if summoned by the rich aroma, the

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first passerby of the day stopped in her

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tracks.

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A young woman wrapped in a thick wool

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scarf leaned close to the glass, her breath

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fogging the outside as she stared longingly at

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the display.

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Miller smiled warmly from the open doorway and

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tapped the wooden frame.

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Just came out of the oven, he called

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out, his voice cutting through the quiet morning.

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The woman looked up, her face breaking into

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a wide, delighted smile as she pushed open

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the bell -ringing door, eager to trade the

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chill of the morning for the warmth within.