The bakery attracted people from around the world. Queues would start an hour before it opened, people jostling with impatient elbows.
When they opened the doors the smell would hit everyone with a ferocity that was unmatched, sending each of them spinning into their own memories of childhoods tinged by rhubarb, dates heady with the scent of spun sugar, grief comforted by warmed butter.
The magic in the bakery wasn’t in the food it created or in the warmth of the tables by the steamed up windows.
It was in the memories it awakened, taste pulling them to the surface.
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