Anand pulled the first tray of cardamom buns from the oven before the sun was fully up. Steam curled around his face, sweet and warm. In a few weeks, these same buns would sit on a festival table, and strangers would decide if they remembered him. He set the tray down and smiled anyway. Today, the bakery was full of his family, and that was enough to start. Through the front windows, lavender swayed in the morning breeze. The hand-painted sign creaked softly above the door. Inside, flour dusted every surface like a light snow. Clove sat on his usual stool near the counter, working through a tall stack of pancakes drowned in syrup. He cut another bite. "Dad. I think I've peaked. This is my peak." Syrup dripped down his fork. "It's a whole thing." Anand laughed and slid a glass of milk toward him without looking up from his dough. Rosemary darted between her father's legs, chasing a rolling measuring cup. "Sorry, Papa, sorry," she whispered, ducking under his arm. She clutched the cup to her chest like a prize. "I caught it before it broke." Her voice was small and proud. Madhuri moved past with a tray of sourdough loaves, calm in the middle of it all. "Anand. The proofing box is full. We need the second oven going." She paused, glanced at the front window, and frowned. "And there's already a line outside." Anand looked up. Through the glass, he saw the crowd waiting on the stones. More than usual. Many more. He wiped his hands on his apron and felt his pulse quicken. The morning rush had arrived early, and the festival suddenly felt very close.

Anand unlocked the door and the morning rush poured into the bakery. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed faces he knew, and every one of them had something to say. "We'll see you at the festival!" a woman called, lifting her bag of buns. A man behind her grinned. "My whole family is coming just for your booth." Anand smiled and nodded, but his hands tightened on the counter. Each kind word landed like a small stone in his pocket. By the time the line thinned, his apron was damp and his chest felt tight. He stepped into the back, pressed his palms flat against the worktable, and breathed. The hope in their voices was real. So was the weight of it. Anand stared at the rising dough and made himself say it out loud. "They're expecting something." The worry had a shape now, solid and named. He could no longer pretend the festival was far away.

The next morning, Anand spread his sketches across the bakery counter while the ovens cooled. He had drawn the booth a dozen times. Carved corner posts. A long display shelf for the sourdoughs. A painted sign with the bakery's name in blue script. He wanted people to see the booth from across the square and walk toward it before they knew why. He had ordered the lumber to match: thick planks, weathered on purpose, tied in bundles with purple and blue ribbon and sprigs of lavender, the way the supplier always sent them. The delivery arrived at noon. Anand stepped outside and stopped. The bundles sat stacked on the curb, taller than Clove and twice as wide. He bent and tried to lift one. The wood barely shifted. He tried two-handed. His back protested. The festival square was six blocks away. He stood there in the sun, sweat starting at his collar, and understood he had drawn a stall he could not carry. He called the rental yard. An hour later a weathered blue pickup rolled up to the curb, paint peeling along the hood, rust freckling the wheel wells. Clove came around the corner first and stopped short. "Okay," he said. "That's a truck. That's our truck?" Rosemary ran up behind him with both hands pressed to her mouth. "Papa. Papa, can we ride in it?" She was already climbing onto the back tire before Anand could answer. "Careful," Anand said. He caught her elbow and steadied her up over the side. Clove vaulted in after her and thumped down on a folded blanket. They helped him load the bundles, or pretended to — mostly they patted the ribbons and counted the lavender sprigs and argued about which plank was the biggest. Anand lifted the heavy ends. The truck took the weight without complaining. Bundle after bundle slid into the bed until the pile leaned against the cab and the sketches in his pocket finally matched something real. "In the back, in the back," Rosemary chanted. Clove grinned at his father with the dry look he used when he was trying not to seem too pleased. "For safety reasons, obviously, someone has to guard the wood." Anand laughed. He told them to sit flat, hold the side rail, and not stand up for any reason. Then he climbed into the cab and started the engine. In the mirror he watched his daughter tilt her face up to the sun and his son tuck one arm around her shoulders. The truck rolled forward. The lumber held. Anand felt, for the first time in days, that the festival was something he could actually carry there.