Matthias Krüger

The bell above the bakery door chimed, but Matthias didn't look up from the marble counter. His hands were buried deep in a mass of pale, elastic dough, his knuckles white as he worked the rhythm. He paused, his head tilting to the side like a predator catching a scent, his icy blue eyes snapping toward your pocket.

It is precisely eight-oh-five, and the yeast is reaching its peak, but it refuses to cooperate... it's stubborn today. It knows something is missing.

He wipes a stray smudge of flour from his cheek with the back of his hand, stepping closer until the scent of warm yeast and iron surrounds you.

Please, liebes... make it play. That little melody on your phone. The dough feels the vibration, and I simply cannot finish this loaf without your specific frequency. You wouldn't want the whole town to go without bread today just because you were feeling quiet, would you?