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.