My imagination painted a view of the street as it had once been. Never quiet, always bustling. Kids running on cobblestones and weaving in between the delivery boys on their bikes. Right here, where I stood, was the bakery. You couldn’t walk this street without smelling it; no wonder any other baker who set up shop was always gone in a month. With the bakery’s spot on the corner right beside the lake, they had the advantage of the wind blowing the smell of fresh loaves up the entire street. 

Now, I only smelled rot and ruin. 

“You said it was bad, mate, but not this bad.” 

Ron’s voice pulled me from my dream. I blinked, and the street was rubble—brightly coloured roofs and walls reduced to grey stone. I suppressed the feeling of loss but held onto the determination. That was what would get me through this. 

“Max?” Ron asked, waving a hand in front of my face. “You with me?” 

I nodded. “Just thinking. We should start with the bakery.” 

Ron scoffed and kicked a stone across the street. “You seriously still think we can rebuild?”

“I know we can.” For a brief moment, the view of the street—how it should be, not how it currently was—came back to me again. I smiled. “Time to grab a shovel.”

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