Mira slid the tray of cinnamon rolls into the old bakery oven. Then she closed the door.
The oven shivered once, twice — then the kitchen flooded with warm golden light. Mira's floury hands sparkled like tiny stars.
But the glow faded. Mira knocked on the flour sack. She hummed to the oven. Nothing happened.
She peeked through the window. A girl her age sat on the sidewalk alone, swinging her legs. Mira pressed her palm to the glass. The girl looked up and waved. Mira waved back.
Mira kneaded dough with extra care, folding it over and over until it was soft and smooth. She shaped a round loaf and slid it onto a tray. The oven stayed dark.
Mira's shoulders dropped. She picked up the tray, set it down, picked it up again. 'Please?' she whispered.
The oven shivered. Then golden light — brighter than ever — poured out in warm waves. The bell jingled. The girl stood there, flour on her nose, holding out a drawing of two bunnies sharing a carrot.
Mira handed her the warm loaf and closed the door. Down the street, neighbors stepped outside, drawn by the golden glow. Someone brought a blanket. Someone brought chairs.
The street filled with warm light and warm bread. Mira stood in the middle of it all, grinning.
The golden light shimmered in the bakery window long into the night.