Five A.M.

I own a small bakery. That means I'm awake at four-thirty every morning, six days a week. People always ask me how I can stand it.

The truth is that five a.m. is the most beautiful hour of the day.

The streets are empty and quiet. The sky goes from dark blue to pink to gold while I'm shaping the first loaves. The ovens warm up the whole shop, and by six it smells like cinnamon and butter and fresh bread.

My first customer is always the same: a nurse coming off the night shift. She buys one croissant and a black coffee and tells me about her night. Then the construction workers come, then the parents with strollers, then the kids on their way to school pressing their faces against the glass.

I get to feed my neighborhood every morning. I watch the whole town wake up. I wouldn't trade those quiet early hours for anything.