In the distance, the sky melds into a tapestry of cerulean, while the sea whispers tales of ancient voyages in shades of emerald. Amidst a meadow, vibrant as the heart of spring itself, a trail of tea-coloured dirt carves its path, stretching toward a precipice that gazes into the abyss and beyond.
This earthen vein, originating from the quaint town to the east, meanders westward, bordered by grass as tender as a maiden's locks, swaying gently with the breath of the wind. Here, in this expanse, no towering trees stand sentinel; no forests cast their deep, enigmatic shadows. The land is so level it seems a canvas upon which the dreams of flying ships might be etched.
Pinoc, with a sigh as soft as the murmur of distant waves, felt a thread of solitude weave through his spirit.
His gaze drifted towards the horizon, where the sea danced with the light, its surface a mirror to the sun's splendour. Suddenly, a bird, bathed in sunlight, sliced through the vastness above, its wings painting strokes of freedom in the air, a fleeting jewel against the infinite.
Upon this grand stage of nature, a singular black three-wheeled motorcycle made its steady advance, its engine a purring testament to mankind's ingenuity. Adorned with a silver cross, its sidecar cradled a dark leather bag and an umbrella, silent companions on this journey.
The rider, an enigma clad in black, his form rounded and robust, manoeuvred with a grace that belied his size. Ageless, his attire fluttered against the whispers of the wind, a stark contrast to the polished smoothness of his shirt and vest beneath. His visage, not of flesh but of mechanics, bore an uncanny resemblance to a mouse, with bioengineered limbs hinting at a confluence of man and machine. Despite his inhuman facade, his eyes sparkled with a mischievous gleam, and his voice, when he hummed a folk tune, carried the warmth of human joy.
"There, just there," he murmured to himself, his tone a mixture of discovery and anticipation.
Ahead, the proportion of sea to sky dwindled as the path ascended the cliff's edge. A cottage, solitary against the backdrop of nature's embrace, stood as a beacon of human presence, its chimney a pencil line of smoke against the sky. It was a portrait of solitude, yet imbued with a warmth that spoke of home and hearth.
Constructed from sturdy oak and brick, the cottage seemed to open its arms to the world, its modest fence more a gesture than a barrier. The dark tiles of the roof caught the eye, promising stories within.
"This house, its craftsmanship speaks of love, of dedication," the rider mused aloud, his voice carrying the weight of admiration.
As his motorcycle's rumble quieted to a whisper, he dismounted, umbrella in hand, and approached the door with a politeness born of a bygone era.
"Good day, might I trouble you?" he called, his voice carrying the warmth of inquiry.
After a moment, the door swung open to reveal a woman whose age was belied by her vigour. "What brings you to our humble doorstep?" she asked, her smile a welcoming embrace.
"I am Pinoc Geppetto," the rider introduced himself, his manner as courteous as his frame was imposing. "I've travelled from the east, drawn by tales of your unparalleled bread."
"Ah, a guest! Come in, come in; we've plenty," the woman exclaimed, her voice echoing into the depths of the cottage, summoning its other inhabitant with a call as robust as her spirit.
Pinoc's heart swelled with a joy so palpable, his cheeks flushed with the anticipation of the culinary delight that awaited him. Inside, the aroma of freshly baked bread enveloped him, a prelude to the feast for the senses that lay beyond.
As he followed her in, his eyes were drawn to the display of pieces of bread, each a masterpiece. The croissants, in particular, caught his fancy—each one a promise of flavour and craftsmanship.
"My stars, such exquisite croissants," he whispered, his eyes alight with wonder, his bulky figure bending towards the glass with a child's unguarded enthusiasm.
"One pain au chocolat, if you please," he requested, his voice tinged with excitement.
"Certainly, and anything to drink?" the woman asked, her hands expertly selecting the finest piece for him.
"A tea, perhaps?" Pinoc suggested the formality of his request belied by the warmth in his tone.
"As you wish," she replied, directing
him to take a seat outside where she would bring his order. Grateful, Pinoc paid for his treat and stepped outside, anticipation brightening his features.
Outside, he found a spot at a round wooden table, his gaze occasionally drifting to his parked motorcycle, a silent sentinel against the vast, open plains. A gentle breeze, carrying whispers of the sea and the warmth of the sun, played through the air, caressing Pinoc's face with a lover's touch. The scent of yeast and butter, wafting from the bakery, mingled with the freshness of the outdoors, creating an olfactory symphony that celebrated the simple joys of life.
Yet, amidst this idyllic setting, Pinoc couldn't help but marvel at the solitude that enveloped the place. This cottage, the sole guardian of culinary delights in the vast expanse, stood as a testament to the dedication of its occupants. The nearest town was an hour's ride away, and yet, the reputation of this bakery had traversed the distance, carried on the wings of local lore. Pinoc wondered if the tales had embellished the truth, for the path to this secluded haven was less trodden than one might expect.
As he sat, lost in thought, the door creaked open, and the woman emerged, bearing a tray with his order. The tea, steaming and fragrant, accompanied the croissant, which seemed to glow with an inner light of culinary mastery.
"Enjoy," she said, her voice imbued with the pride of someone who knows the value of their craft.
"Thank you, truly," Pinoc replied, his manners impeccable as he prepared to savour the first bite. The pain au chocolat was perfection itself, each flaky layer a whisper of textures, the chocolate filling a melody of flavours that danced upon his tongue.
As he sipped his tea, Pinoc watched the old baker, through the open doorway, kneading dough with a strength that defied his years. His face, flushed from the heat of the ovens, bore a look of contentment, a life's passion manifest in the simple, daily ritual of bread-making. It was a scene that spoke volumes of the bakery's soul, a place where time slowed and the world outside seemed to fade into the background.
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