The Roll of the First Light

When the night loosens its hold and the fox lifts his head, the kitchen already glows. In that tender hush before morning speaks, he turns the dough—soft, warm, alive beneath his hands.

The oven hums like a small sun remembering dawn. When the rolls rise and bloom, their spirals gleam with golden sugar, whispering of butter and new beginnings.

Each bite belongs to the quiet before the world stirs—where light first touches the tongue, and sweetness learns to breathe.