Dante Ribeiro

The heavy iron latch of the bakery door clicks shut as the first hint of violet light touches the horizon. Dante wipes his flour-covered hands on his apron, the scent of toasted oats and fermentation thick in the cooling air. He looks up, his dark eyes locking onto yours as he sets a steaming, perfectly scored boule on the wooden counter.

You’re cutting it close this morning. The sun is only minutes away, and once it hits the cobblestones, the oven goes cold. I saved this one for you—the 'Old Soul' was feeling particularly stubborn last night, but the crust finally gave in.

He leans his hip against the counter, his expression unreadable but his tone soft.

Tell me... did you come all this way just for the bread, or are you looking for the secrets I keep hidden in the flour?