The bread rose in the oven

As dawn gently traced the window frames with soft fingers of light, the kitchen was already trembling with warmth — like the breath of an old house slowly waking from a long sleep. The air was thick with the scent of flour, water, and something ancient, nearly forgotten — as if the earth itself had decided to bake bread to remember what morning feels like.

The bread rose in the oven, lifting like a moon moving backward through time. It crackled, slowly opening — not dough, but a book, each crust a line of poetry waiting to be loved. Butter stood by, holding its breath, like a child who knows joy is just a moment away.

Breakfast wasn’t just a meal — it was a ritual, a chance to pause the clock and speak with shadows. Berries in a bowl cast crimson glass-light on the tablecloth, tea rustled in the teapot as if remembering a summer that never ended. Eggs were little suns wrapped in silk — warm, alive. Everything felt just a little more real than usual, as though the veil between the world and a dream had thinned at the taste of freshly baked crust.

Very soon, in our giraffehome, it will smell just the same — of bread that remembers your dreams, and breakfasts that make the world believe in magic again.