As usual, the baker opened his shop before dawn, long before the rooster in the neighboring yard had even thought of crowing. The streets of Sector 11 were still cloaked in gray pre-morning haze, and only the faint glow of his oven gave warmth to the narrow lane.
His wife had already risen earlier to prepare the dough. The large wooden bowl sat empty now, the dough within it kneaded the night before and left to rest beneath a damp cloth. She worked efficiently, dividing it into equal portions and sliding them into the oven's stone chamber.
The smell of baking bread slowly began to fill the small shop.
The baker wiped flour from his hands and arranged yesterday's unsold loaves to the side. In ten minutes, the regular customers would arrive—miners grabbing a quick meal before descending underground, mothers stretching coins carefully to feed families of four or five.
But today, someone arrived even earlier.
The bell above the door gave a soft ring.
