Before dawn had even fully lifted, the small town bakery “Kurumi‑dō” was already in motion.
At 4 a.m., bakery owner Saki donned her apron and switched on the ovens. As the scent of dough began its slow swell, she turned the dial on an old radio. After static, a calm voice came through the AM waves:
“Good morning, early risers. May your day begin gently.”
That was the cue that Kurumi‑dō’s day had truly begun.
The doors opened at 6 a.m. Fresh croissants, sweet melon bread, and chewy loaves of shokupan lined the shelves. One by one, townsfolk filtered in.
Among them was one faithful regular, arriving daily at 6:05: Grandma Fujiko.
“Good morning. Did you bake some walnut bread today?”
“Yes, they’re perfectly golden.”
Grandma Fujiko would buy two walnut breads and a jam roll. She’d take her bag, sit on the bench outside, and slowly eat one. That was her ritual.
“I like listening to that radio while I eat. Old songs… they give me comfort,” she’d say with a soft hum accompanying the radio’s music and voices.
Saki quietly looked forward to hearing her small humming to match the broadcast.
The town slowly changed. The bookstore in front of the station became a conbini. The greengrocer next door shuttered its windows. But Kurumi‑dō and the AM radio remained the same.
Then, one day:
At 6:05, Grandma Fujiko didn’t appear.
“She overslept…?” Saki told herself.
But the next day, and the day after, she still didn’t come.
Worried, Saki considered visiting her home. Yet days slipped by—and after a week passed, a neighbor came in for bread and quietly said:
“Grandma Fujiko… she quietly passed away recently.”
The words struck Saki mute.
She recalled that quiet morning: the little frame perched on the bench, quiet radio in the air, a slice of bread in hand.
“I see…”
That day, Saki baked only two walnut breads. She placed the bag on the bench and sat silently by the radio.
On air, listener letters were being read.
“My day begins with bread and radio at the bakery every morning. Someday, I want to thank that gentle voice.”
From Fujiko T.
Saki bowed deeply toward the radio.
“Thank you… Grandma Fujiko.”
The next morning, a handwritten sign appeared on the bakery’s door:
“Today Only – Thank You Set: Walnut Bread + Jam Roll”
And amid it, the radio’s voice layered softly:
“May a precious morning begin somewhere today.”
Surrounded by the scent of bread and the radio’s voice, the little town awoke once more.
And in the seat on the bench beside the tray, someone had sat.
“Excuse me… I wanted to try the bread Grandma always ate, too.”
Saki smiled and nodded.
Grandma Fujiko’s mornings had, indeed, become someone else’s morning.
