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The morning mist was just beginning to lift

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off the ancient European town,

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leaving the damp, uneven cobblestone street gleaming like

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the back of a silver trout.

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Silence still blanketed the narrow alleyways,

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save for the distant, cheerful chiming of a

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church bell marking seven o 'clock.

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Against the weathered pastel yellow stone of a

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centuries -old bakery,

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a vintage powder -blue bicycle rested on its

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kickstand.

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It belonged to Clara, the village florist,

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who had popped inside for her morning espresso

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and a warm croissant.

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Mounted securely to the bike's handlebars was a

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masterpiece of woven willow,

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overflowing with a brilliant cascade of freshly gathered

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blooms,

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velvety crimson roses, sunny yellow daisies,

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and sprigs of wild lavender that perfumed the

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crisp morning air.

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As the first rays of sunlight crested the

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terracotta rooftops,

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they struck the flower basket just right,

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setting the dewdrops on the petals to sparkle

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like scattered diamonds.

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A curious calico cat emerged from a nearby

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doorway,

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stretching lazily before trotting over to sniff a

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particularly fragrant spray of lilac

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spilling from the bicycle's basket.

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Just then, the bakery door swung open with

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a merry jingle,

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releasing a cloud of rich coffee and buttery

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pastry steam.

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Clara stepped out into the quiet street,

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smiling as she grabbed her handlebars,

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ready to wheel her mobile garden down to

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the bustling morning market square.