Bakers Don’t Bake Other People’s Bread

By Sanne Rosenmay

Prologue

Once there was a woman who lived alone on the edge of an old city.
Her hands had once loved to create, but now they had fallen silent.
She baked small loaves for herself – enough to live, but never enough to fill what was empty inside.

She had long since grown used to hunger.
Not the hunger in her stomach, but the one in her heart – the kind you learn to quiet down until it almost disappears.

The Meeting

One morning, while fog still hung low over the rooftops, she heard a faint sound outside.
When she opened the door, a small girl was standing there.
She was barefoot, wrapped in a thin shawl, with eyes that looked like windows to something far too old.

“Do you have some bread to spare?” the girl asked. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

The woman hesitated. She had only one small loaf left, meant to last until evening.
But when she saw the girl’s hands – thin as bird bones – she heard herself say,
“Come in. You can have half.”

The girl sat down, and the woman cut the bread in two.
But as she handed it over, it suddenly seemed far too small.
Half a loaf against a child’s hunger – it felt like nothing at all.

She looked at the dough still resting in the wooden bowl from the day before, and a strange light flickered in her eyes.

“I will bake a bread so large,” she said slowly, “that no child will ever go hungry again.”

The girl lifted her head. “Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know,” the woman said. “But we can try.”

They gathered flour, water, and salt.
The woman kneaded, and the girl helped as the morning sun climbed higher.
The dough came alive under her hands – warm, smooth, and carrying the sweetest scent of life and hope.

“It’s big,” said the girl.
“Yes,” replied the woman. “Dreams are, too.”

When they were finished, the dough was larger than any bread the woman had ever made.
She wrapped it in a cloth, and together they lifted it between them.
“Now we just have to find an oven big enough to bake our bread,” the woman said.

The City Wakes

The misty morning city smelled of smoke and freshly baked bread as the woman and the girl stepped into the cobblestoned streets, where life was already stirring.

But when people saw them carrying the enormous dough, they stopped.

“Look at her,” said a man. “She thinks she can save the world with flour.”
“That will never turn into bread,” said another.

But the girl only looked at the woman, who walked with calm steps and her gaze fixed on the horizon.

At the first bakery, a man stood with flour on his hands.
The woman stepped forward and said,
“I have a dough larger than any I’ve made. Will you help me bake it? There will be bread enough for everyone.”

The baker looked at her.
“I only bake my own bread,” he said. “I know my flour, my yeast.
If I start baking another’s dough, who knows what will come out of the oven?”

“But you could help,” said the girl.

“No, little one,” he replied. “Bakers don’t bake other people’s bread.”
And he closed the door.

They walked on.
The dough began to rise – heavy and alive, as if it breathed.
Soon the woman had to carry it around her shoulders, where it coiled like a golden serpent, a warm yoke pressing against her back.

At the inn, the host said, “We make soup, not bread.”
At the convent, the nun said, “Our ovens are sacred.”
At the hostel, they said, “There’s no room.”

With every door that closed, the dough grew.
The woman’s back bent under its weight, but the girl still held her hand.

The Laughter of the Town

At the marketplace, people stopped and stared.
Some laughed. Others pointed.

“She carries her own madness!” someone shouted.
“She’s kneading her dream to death!” cried another.

The woman said nothing.

“Let them talk,” whispered the girl. “It still smells good.”
The woman nodded. “As long as it smells of bread, we’ll keep walking.”

By nightfall, they reached the city gate.
Light glowed warmly from within, and an old baker stood there, leaning on his cane.

The woman stepped forward.
“I’ve carried this dough all day. It has grown with every ‘no.’ Now it’s too heavy for me.
Can you help me bake it?”

The old baker looked at her for a long moment and said,
“It’s too large. No oven can hold it anymore.
But perhaps — if you find someone willing to share their fire — it might still be done.”

“Do such people exist?” asked the girl.
“Sometimes,” he said. “But rarely at the city gates.”

The Flame

They left the gate behind and walked out into the darkness.
The dough was heavy, but it glowed faintly now, as if carrying its own warmth.
Far away, beyond the last houses, they saw a flicker — a small fire burning at the edge of the woods.

A young woman sat there surrounded by children. She had a simple stone oven beside her.
When she saw them coming, she rose.

“Are you carrying bread?” she asked.

“Yes,” said the older woman, weary. “But no one would help me bake it.”

The young woman smiled gently. “Then let’s try together. Here, we share both warmth and hands.”

They lifted the dough into her oven.
It didn’t fit at first — but slowly, as if by a quiet miracle, it began to shape itself to the fire.
It baked not quickly, but evenly, with a scent that spread through the night.

The children laughed, and the girl danced in the glow.
The woman watched them, and something inside her finally came to rest.

Epilogue

When morning came, the bread lay finished — golden and soft, larger than anything they had seen.
They broke it apart and shared it, and everyone who tasted it said it reminded them of something they had longed for, though they hadn’t known it until now.

The woman sat by the fire, and the girl climbed into her lap.
“You found someone who would make your bread,” the girl said.

“No,” the woman smiled. “I found someone who would bake ours.”

Bakers may not bake other people’s bread.
But some hearts do.