Canvas & Crumbs

III

Pint of Blush

The late afternoon sun filters through the large windows of the bakery, casting a warm, golden glow over the rows of pastries exhibited on the counter. The scent of freshly baked bread and sugar lingers in the air, mingling with the quiet hum of the city outside.

It is a peaceful time of day, that in-between hour when the rush of morning customers has long passed, and the evening crowd is still a distant thought.

I shift around the counter with practiced ease, with hands wiping down the wooden surface, each movement as accurate and deliberate as my baking. I found solace in these simple tasks, a certain contemplative rhythm that allowed my mind to wander freely, it is therapeutic for me.

Today, however, my thoughts are not entirely my own. They are tethered to the man seated by the window, his familiar presence a comfort I have bloom accustomed to.

North had his sketchbook open, the edges of the pages slightly crinkled from use. His brow was furrowed in concentration, the pencil in his hand moving steadily across the paper. I had seen him like this countless times, completely absorbed in his art, as if the world outside that notebook didn't exist. I admired that about him—the way he could lose himself in something he loved.

From behind the counter, I watch him mutely, with eyes tracing the lines of his face, the subtle movements of his hand as he sketched. There is something calming about the way he worked, a quiet intensity that draws me in.

I wonder what he is drawing this time.

Was it another portrait of the bakery?

A study of the customers who came and went, each with their own story to tell?

Or perhaps something e n t i r e l y different, a glimpse into a world only he could vision?

I polished the same spot on the counter for the third time, lost in thought. It wasn't just his art that captivated me; it was him. North is a puzzle that I couldn't quite piece together, a man of few words but many layers.