The Midnight Bakery – Part 1: Hatch Window

At three o'clock every night, a van pulled up outside the bakery, and Signe's heart did something silly.

She was thirty-three, a baker, with flour in her hair and forearms like a boxer's, standing at the back door of a Copenhagen bakery in the warm yellow light of the ovens. The street outside was dark and wet and silent. The van's headlights swept across the cobbles. A door slammed.

"Morning," said the delivery driver.

"It's three a.m."

"It's morning somewhere."

Noor was twenty-nine, a driver for the bread co-op, small and quick, in a hi-vis jacket and a woolly hat, with a warm grin and a stud in her nose. She collected the trays from the hatch window one by one, and each night, she lingered.

"What's tonight?"

"Rye. Sourdough. Cardamom buns."

"The buns."

"You have them every night."

"They're the reason I get up."

Signe laughed, wiping her hands on her apron. She slid a warm paper bag through the hatch. Noor took it with both hands, and their fingers touched.

"Still hot," said Noor.

"It's the oven."

"It's the baker."

Signe went pink. She busied herself with a tray of loaves, back turned, grinning like a fool. The van's engine ticked as it cooled. Rain drizzled softly on the roof of the lean-to.

"Can I ask you something?" said Noor.

"Yes."

"Do you ever get a break?"

"Eleven minutes. At four."

"What do you do?"

"Eat a bun. Stand outside. Look at the sky."

"Can I look at the sky with you?"

"Green?" said Signe, shyly, a word from the delivery sheet.

"Green," said Noor, beaming. "Very green. I'll bring coffee."

Continue the story: Part 2 – First Light.