The Little Town with the Morning Bread - childhood dream's ✨🥖🌱
The Little Town with the Morning Bread - childhood dream's ✨🥖🌱 There was a time, long ago, when I was a child — maybe seven, maybe eight — when my world felt strange and heavy. I had just come to Denmark, everything unfamiliar, everything cold in a way I couldn't explain. But at night, when I closed my eyes, I would slip into "another life" sometimes. In this life, I lived in a small town that felt warmer than anywhere I knew. The streets were narrow, the walls sun-kissed like old Italian houses — though I never really knew if it was Italy. Maybe it was just a dream of peace. And in that town, I had a father. Not the father I would later meet in real life — the sailor, the wanderer, the man I barely knew, who carried storms instead of bread. No, this father was a baker. He owned a small bakery, waking before the sun to knead dough with hands that worked with love, not violence. Sometimes I would wake in the dream and walk to his bakery, the smell of ...