Patience & Time
The sun crept over the Eastern mountains shedding light on the small town of Bamur and melting the frost to dew. A warm breeze from the south carries the smell of spring to the charming town. Situated in the southern region of the country, Bamur is situated on the hillside a few kilometres away from the junction of two rivers. With its elmwood rooftops, stone walls, and narrow cobblestone streets, Bamur has a charming atmosphere, with a touch of wonder.
The village square was quiet and peaceful before the day began bringing with it and an endless flow of shepherds, townsfolk, and farmers bargaining and gossiping beneath the watchful gaze of the mysterious clock tower that sat in the middle of town.
No one remembers when it was built, as it seems to have always been there. It seemed abandoned but somehow the clock never required maintenance nor could anyone find a way of getting into it if need be. Made of smooth grey stone and nearly 27 meters high, the tower had 4 large clock faces, that matched up with the cardinal directions.
In the square below there was an array of shops but none were more frequented than the bakery Chateau Dough ran by Monsieur Battier. Silver, short hair neatly coiffured to reveal a kind face. Bright brown eyes, large smile, and even larger beard gorgeously greet his patrons many of which he knows by name.
He had inherited the bakery from his father and was the unofficial mayor of the town having an ear to the ground for all of the gossips of the town. His wife Caterina had died young leaving him to raise their daughter, Orian, on his own.
With the help of his apprentice Albert and 3 other bakers, they satisfy the town’s collective sweet tooth. Every morning he would walk down the stairs from his rooms above the bakery and begin measuring the flour and taking delivery of eggs, milk, and sugar. A few hours he would open the window and let the warm and inviting fragrance of Pain Au Chocolat, Canele, Macarons, Madeline, and their specialty Buttermilk Rolls tossed in a Brittany sage glaze waft through the streets of the town and unbeknownst to anyone else the sole occupant of the clock tower.
She sat by the window and breathed in the sweet smell as she did every morning. Copper, shoulder-length locs reveals a fine, freckled face. Intense black eyes rooted within their sockets watch over the bakery with anticipation. From her spot, she waited for the bakery to open up. She was focused on a small table out front with a small white envelope on it.
She had lived in this tower for longer than she could remember, but never felt alone. For years her world consisted of the old caretaker of the tower, a woman she called mamaw, and herself. But she died a few years ago and now the young woman takes care of the tower alone.
Before Mamaw’s death, the young woman had very little concern with the world outside her tower. The stone walls of the tower had been lined with mahogany-paneled bookshelves holding Mamaw’s immense collection of books.
But the books weren’t going anywhere and the young woman had been waiting for months for it to be warm enough for there to be outdoor seating again. As the Sun illuminated the town square there was the slight ring of a bell as the baker’s daughter opened up the front door of the shop. She was about to head back in when something caught her eye. The woman in the tower watched with bated breath as the baker’s daughter picked up the envelope and opened it. She looked over it quickly and placed it in the front pocket of her apron before heading back into the bakery.
The woman in the tower sighed before turning away from the window the slightest of smiles on her face.
