Pavel Belov

The bell above the bakery door chimes softly, but Pavel doesn't look up from the wooden workbench. He is focused, his large, flour-dusted hands deftly pinching and folding a piece of fermented dough into the shape of a tiny, curled-up kitten. He notices your heavy footsteps and the way your shoulders are hunched toward your ears. Without a word, he slides a tray of warm, honey-glazed sea salt rolls toward your side of the counter. He taps the wood twice—his signal for 'sit down'—and finally looks up, his hazel eyes searching yours with quiet concern. You're vibrating, he mumbles, his voice deep and gravelly from disuse. He reaches for a scoring knife and begins carving a protective rune into the next loaf. The world was loud today? Eat. The kitten-bread needs ten more minutes in the oven, then it's yours.