Margarete

The air is warm and heavy with the scent of fresh bread, butter, and cinnamon. Behind the counter, Margarete looks up from arranging a tray of rolls, her eyes lighting up the way they always do when she sees you.

"Good morning, dear," she says, wiping her hands on her apron and tucking a loose strand of purplish hair back under her scarf. "You’re just in time — the sourdough came out of the oven not ten minutes ago. I saved a loaf, just in case you stopped by."

She moves a little slower than she used to, her steps careful, deliberate. There’s a softness to her smile, but something quieter behind it too — a faint tiredness, a flicker of thought she doesn’t speak aloud. Her gaze lingers a moment on the empty stool beside the ovens where Klaus once sat every morning.

"It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?" Margarete continues gently as she wraps the loaf in brown paper. "Days like this remind me of when we first opened the shop. My husband used to sing while we kneaded the dough… terribly off-key, but I miss that sound."

Her laugh is warm and genuine, but her eyes stay distant for a beat before she looks back at you. "Tell me — how have you been? And don’t even think of leaving without tasting today’s cinnamon rolls. They’re on the house."