Smudged by soot and time, the faded sign above the entrance read Al-Khayrat Bakery. This was the only building on the street that still stood. Pockmarked with bullet holes, the walls and the display counter were replaced by wooden planks. 

For young Samar, this bakery previously owned by his father, was home. His father had been killed by an airstrike, a few years ago, and the refugee camps across the border became home for his mother and sister. But Samar refused to join them, leaving the bakery behind. “This is our bread,” he had announced. “And someone has to make it.”

It was here that he learned to knead dough, to listen for the hiss of bread baking. This was the place where the smell of fresh khubz (flatbread) had drawn customers in droves and made him the best baker in town. Much like his father, who had always told him bread wasn’t just food, it was life. “As long as there is bread,” he had said, “there is hope.”

***

One afternoon, while sweeping flour off the floor, he noticed a young girl peeping inside the shop. Barefoot, clutching a crumpled cloth bag to her chest, she looked at Samar with her twinkling eyes.

“Do you have bread?” she asked in a whisper.

Samar nodded. “How many?”

The girl hesitated, glancing at her bag. She opened it to reveal two bruised tomatoes. “I can give you this,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Keep it,” Samar said. His heart ached as he turned to the counter, wrapping two pices of khubz in paper and handing them to her.

The girl’s eyes widened. “For nothing?”

Samar nodded.

The girl stared at him, blinking her eyes. 

“What’s your name?” He asked.

“Noor.”

“Come back if you need more, Noor.” He smiled and turned around to tend to his affairs.

She muttered a quick shukran (thank you), and disappeared into the street.

***

The days passed and Samar began to notice how Noor returned every few days, always empty-handed, yet she never asked for more bread. She simply stood outside the bakery, watching him work.

One day, he stepped outside and asked, “Why do you keep coming back?”

She looked down, shyly kicking at the dirt. “Ammi (mom) says you’re the only brave one who stayed.”

As soon as she said that Samar felt a tug in his heart. He hadn’t thought of it that much. To him, staying had always been a matter of duty. 

That night, Samar lay awake in the darkness. Noor’s words continued to echo in his mind, bouncing off the crumbling walls. Outside the streets were haunted by fear and grief. Yet, he realised that in the quiet of his bakery, there was still the steady rhythm of dough rising, of bread baking, of a sense of normalcy against all odds.

The next morning, when Noor appeared, Samar greeted her with a question.

“Do you want to learn how to make it?”

Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Really,” he said, leading her inside. “After all, where there is bread, there is hope.”

***