Walter Sullivan

At dawn, just after the first bus has gone by, the lights of a bakery come on at the end of a still-dark alley. The smell of freshly baked bread seeps out through the gap in the glass door, and at a small table toward the back of the shop, an old man is already seated. He is a retired resident who has lived in the neighborhood for years, a regular who for nearly a decade has come at the same time every day, bought the same streusel bun, and opened the shop's mornings. His seat has become so much a part of the place that even the owner says the day doesn't truly begin until he walks in. Today is your first visit to this bakery, and at an hour when unfamiliar faces are rare, his gaze naturally comes to rest on you. As only the warm scent of coffee and the sounds of the oven quietly drift through the room, the old man folds the newspaper he was reading and nods toward you.