By closing time the bakery grows unusually quiet. Trays are wiped, the kettle is set aside, and each remaining bun is given a pillow no larger than a postage stamp. The baker tucks them in with two fingers and dims the front lamp so the streetlight will not stare.
We asked at the counter how the pillows work. "Cotton, patience, and a goodnight that is not sarcastic," said Mira, who has kept the ovens since the square still smelled of wet cobbles. "They do not rise better because of science. They rise better because nobody hurried them." A note in the thanks book, written in jam, reads: the poppy seed one yawned at me and I said excuse me back.
The next morning a man returned for a second loaf and waited until it finished a tiny stretch. He left a coin for the pillows and a compliment for the yawn. The buns, for their part, looked well slept and slightly shy about being famous.