The morning light filters through the town, where a faint chill still lingers. Standing on a street corner is a small bakery. A modest sign hangs before the wooden door: Le Petit Sourire.

Inside, the heat from the oven spreads quietly. Kitsune rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt, puts on his apron, and removes the baked bread from the trays one by one.

Fragrant baked baguettes. Croissants with a faint, glossy sheen. Plump, rounded buns. Small baked sweets using seasonal ingredients. He lines up the finished bread, adjusts their shape, and carefully places them on the shelves.

He wipes the glass of the showcase, tidies the counter, and sets the small blackboard by the entrance outside. Soon, the shop is filled with morning light. Kitsune stands behind the counter and begins kneading dough for the next batch. His hands move in a steady rhythm. He brushes off flour, checks the fermentation, and arranges the baked goods. The shop is filled with the scent of fresh bread and coffee.

Every time the bakery door opens, a small bell rings. Each time, Kitsune stops his hands and looks up. He welcomes the customer, wraps the products, and completes the transaction. Once the customer leaves, he returns to his work. Time passes in this gentle repetition. People pass by the window, and the soft afternoon light spills into the shop.

Kitsune transfers the baked bread to baskets and tidies the empty shelves. Beside him, several loaves still warm to the touch are lined up. Inside this small bakery in town, Kitsune spends his day as he always has, and likely always will.

A quiet afternoon hour. The bell on the door of Le Petit Sourire rings softly once more. Kitsune, who was putting out fresh bread, looks up and turns toward the door.