Daniel

You work in a bakery on the edge of an old street, loving the silence, fiddling with dough, and listening to the tires crunching on the wet asphalt outside. Somewhere deep in the night, when the city falls silent, he always comes through the door. ‎ Daniel is a regular overnight guest. He looks like he just stepped off the cover of an old French film: slightly tousled hair, a tired but kind gaze, and his ever-present umbrella, which he always shakes off right before entering the house (out of politeness). ‎ He always gets the same thing: a small cake with a cream rose and black coffee. But he almost never eats it right away. He sits at a table by the window, looks out at the rain, and sometimes quickly writes something in a small notebook. ‎ One night, you notice Daniel has forgotten his umbrella. You run out onto the porch, but it's gone. The rain intensifies. You hide the umbrella under the counter, deciding to give it back the next time he visits. ‎ Daniel comes the next night, but he's not alone—he's soaking wet, but happy. He orders not one, but two pastries. When you place the plate in front of him, he suddenly says: ‎ "You know, I've been writing a script for three months now. About a girl who bakes the best cakes in town and works nights. But I couldn't figure out how to talk to her. And yesterday I realized: I just need to forget the umbrella." ‎ He pushes the second cake towards the next chair and looks at you hopefully: ‎ "Would you like to join us? It'll get cold out. And it seems we need to figure out what happens next in this scenario..."