Bread at Six

I wake up at six every morning. I go to the bakery on our street.

The baker is Hasan. He is always there before me. His hands are white with flour.

"Two loaves," I say. He smiles and gives me the bread. It is hot.

I walk home slowly. The bread warms my arms.

One morning, the door is closed. There is no light inside.

I stand there for a minute. Then a woman opens the door. It is Hasan's daughter.

"My father is tired today," she says. "But the bread is ready."

She gives me two loaves. They are hot, like always.