While everyone else in the town was asleep, the baker was awake.
His name was Mr. Okafor, and his bakery sat on the corner, with a green door and a window full of steam. He started work in the middle of the night, when the streets were dark and the stars were out.
His helper was a small girl named Dalia, who lived upstairs. She was not allowed to stay up all night, of course. But sometimes, just before bedtime, she was allowed to come down and help with the very first loaf.
"Flour," said Mr. Okafor.
Dalia scooped. Fwoomp. A soft white cloud rose up.
"Water."
Dalia poured, slowly, in a thin silver stream.
"Salt, and a pinch of yeast."
She pinched. She sprinkled.
Then came her favourite part. Mr. Okafor tipped the whole shaggy mixture onto the table, and they kneaded it together. Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn. The dough began as a sticky mess, but after a while it became smooth and round and warm.
"Now what?" asked Dalia.
"Now," said Mr. Okafor, "we wait."
He laid a cloth over the bowl. "Bread cannot be hurried. It needs time to rise. It does that all by itself, in the quiet."
Dalia sat on a stool, with her chin in her hands. The oven ticked. The shop smelled of warm flour. Outside the window, a street lamp glowed.
"Is that the best part?" she asked. "The waiting?"
Mr. Okafor chuckled. "Some people say the best part is eating it. But I think the best part is knowing that, while everybody sleeps, something good is growing."
Dalia yawned. It was a very big yawn. Mr. Okafor carried her upstairs, and tucked her into bed, and she did not even notice.
In her dream, she was a small, round loaf, rising and rising, soft and warm.
And in the morning, when the sun came up, the whole street smelled of fresh bread, and the little bakery opened its green door, and the town woke up hungry and happy.