Within the fragrant embrace of his bakery, where the scent of just-baked bread appeared to enchant the very stones, Heinrich was entangled in a debate with a loaf of bread. The subject? Whether it should be sliced thick or thin for the evening’s supper.

  “Thick, I say! Easier for the butter to adhere.” Heinrich argued with hands on his hips.

  The loaf, being an inanimate object, simply sat there, doing what loaves do best—nothing.

  Elisa entered. A spitting image of her father, right down to the hint of flour always adorning her nose, she held her own opinions about bakery (and life) and wasn’t shy about voicing them.

  “Papa..” she began, with a sigh, “arguing with the bread again? For the love of yeast, it’s bread. It doesn’t have feelings!”

  “A baker, Lisa,“ he said peacefully, gently touching the bread on the table, “speaks to his creations, understanding their essence. Every loaf has its own journey, from grain and water to the final baked form.“

  Lisa observed the loaf her father touched, noting its golden crust and the subtle patterns of flour. She remembered times when she had seen him speaking to other ingredients, infusing them with intent and love, as if they were more than just idle objects. Realizing that her father truly believed in the soul of his creations, she pondered the emotional connection between the baker and the bread.

  Lisa perked her head and looked up at her father, her youthful eyes filled with curiosity. “Papa, do you think the bread knows it is loved?“

  “Ah,“ Heinrich mused, “I believe that every creation knows the intent and care behind its creation.“

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  She nodded slowly, taking in his words. “I hope to understand all this when I’m older, just like you. The bakery—it feels magical.“

  Heinrich smiled. “And one day, my dear, this magic will be yours to continue and nourish.“

  Lisa approached and hugged him, comforted by the warmth of both the bakery and her father’s words.

  Their small talk was momentarily paused as a soft shadow fell over the bakery’s entrance. Sister Helene stepped in, her robes flowing gently around her, often signaling a forthcoming preaching on the virtues of fasting.

  She offered a small smile, nodding in acknowledgment to both. “Master Heinrich,” she began, her voice soft yet firm, “I come with a challenge.”

  Heinrich raised an eyebrow, rubbing the end of his clean-shaven chin. “A baking duel? With you, Sister?”

  Elisa giggled. “Perhaps she wishes to craft a holy croissant?”

  Ignoring the comment, Sister Helene took a deep breath. “No, not a croissant. Something—more graceful. I have seen breads aplenty, yet I envision one that intertwines with our spirit of prayer. A dough, baked, that when one beholds it, thinks of the very essence of reverence. The Holy Trinity itself.”

  Heinrich’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, the cogs of his mind visibly turning, while Elisa whispered to a French baguette next to her, “See, bread? You could’ve been a contender.”

  With a nod, Heinrich replied, “challenge accepted, Sister. This village will witness a creation that is not just a treat, but a statement.”

  Sister Helene nodded respectfully. “I hope to taste this divine creation before the week’s end.” With her mission clear and her expectation set, she took her leave.

  With the magnitude of the challenge pressing down on him, he looked to the heavens—declaring as the stars began their celestial watch, “Brotholztal, prepare your taste buds!”.

  “And maybe, just maybe, if you can focus on this, you’ll stop talking to the grain about its life choices, Father?”