A Fold of Warm Cinnamon

I walked past the front gate and followed the shaded sidewalk until the rich scent of toasted crust led me to the neighborhood bakery. Up on the low cedar bench beside the entrance, someone had left a folded kraft paper pastry bag resting in a warm patch of midday light. I stood completely still for several slow breaths, watching the stiff paper and listening to the soft murmur of the street. Once the quiet felt steady, I stepped forward and pressed both palms against the thick crease. The stiff fold yielded with a sharp, dry pop, puffing out a gentle drift of buttery cinnamon.