By nine the bakery window was already steaming, and each roll had a tiny side pocket folded as carefully as an envelope. People in line did not grab the first warm one. They waited while the baker tucked in a scrap of paper, then nodded to the crust as if it were a mailman.
We asked at the kiosk, where a neighbor was buying jam and a second roll for the house across the street. "Mine said good morning and asked if the geranium needed a sip," she said. "I wrote back that the geranium is fine and the soup is on. The pocket still smelled like vanilla when I reached my gate."
A day later the same neighbor returned for two more. She said the street had finished exchanging hellos by lunch, and the baker was already saving the shyest notes for the afternoon batch, so nobody would have to shout over the garden fence.