Chapter 1
The bitter wind of a late-autumn evening whipped through the cobblestone alleyways, carrying the scent of roasting yeast and butter from the warmth of the corner bakery. Outside the glass window, the condensation mirrored the chill in the air. Nine-year-old Mara stood shivering, her bare toes cramped inside oversized leather shoes that belonged to no one she remembered. Her face was smudged with soot from the railway flues where they had slept the previous night, and her long, dark braids were coming undone, catching loose strands of dry grass and dust. Pressed tightly against her chest was her four-year-old brother, Toby. His small body shook with quiet, exhausted sobs, his face buried deep in the crook of her neck, leaving damp patches on her worn beige dress.
Mara swallowed the dryness in her throat, blinking away the stinging grit that lined her eyelids. She stepped closer to the gleaming glass pane, beneath the warm amber glow of the storefront sign. Inside, rows of golden-brown croissants rested neatly behind the curved display case, alongside dusted pastries and braided loaves that looked like heavy gold. Behind the counter stood a young baker with dark, neatly combed hair, wearing a crisp white shirt and a heavily starched black apron. He was wiping down the marble surface with a damp cloth, his movements brisk and efficient, entirely detached from the freezing desolation just inches away from his hands.
Gathering what little courage she had left in her hollow chest, Mara pushed the heavy wooden door open just enough to slide inside, the small brass bell chiming a cheerful note that clashed sharply with the grim reality she brought with her. She adjusted her grip on Toby, who whimpered softly at the sudden rush of heated air, clutching the frayed collar of her dress with tiny, dirt-streaked fingers. The baker stopped wiping the counter and looked up, his jaw tightening as he registered the ragged state of his unexpected visitors.
Mara took a slow, shallow breath, feeling the cold air burn her lungs, and looked straight into the baker's indifferent eyes. In a voice barely louder than a whisper, she asked the question she had rehearsed a hundred times during their long walk from the rail yards. “Do you have yesterday’s bread for sale at a lower price?”
The baker stopped his movements entirely, resting both hands flat on the cold marble counter. His expression hardened into a stern mask of institutional indifference. With a sharp, clipped tone, he delivered the verdict that cut through the warm air like a blade. “We don’t sell leftovers here,” he said firmly, gesturing toward the door with a flick of his chin.
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Before Mara could retreat, a muffled sound caught her attention from the corner of the shop, where an elderly man in a finely tailored gray suit sat alone at a small round table.
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