The bakery, Salted Cinnamon, stood in Carmel-By=The-Sea. It was small. But it was Sage’s

Sage woke early. The sea was there. The fog came. Then left. The sun followed. He baked bread. And cinnamon rolls. People liked them. That was good.

Sage had other plans once. Embry Riddle. Planes. Air Force. He was fit then, strong. People noticed. Then the accident. A jeep rolled. His chest crushed. No more planes.

The insurance paid him nicely. He left his old dreams. He chose Carmel. He baked bread. Made cinnamon rolls. Started over. He was 57 now. He looked different. But he felt right.

The door opened one morning. A boy came in. Closer to twenty than to childhood. He limped. His face young but scarred. He looked around. Picked a loaf.

"First time?" Sage asked.

The boy nodded. He saw a photo. Young Sage in uniform. "You were going to fly?"

"Almost," Sage said.

The boy had a phone. He showed an article. About Salted Cinnamon. "This you?"

Sage nodded. Wrapped the loaf. Added a cinnamon roll. "On the house."

The boy talked. About soccer. His leg. How it ended. Sage listened.

"Life changes," Sage said. "This wasn't my first dream. But it's a good one."

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The boy nodded. “Can I ask? About the name?”

The baker smiled and remembered. He told the boy the tale. Of the elaborate prank, the one in middle school. For six months, he had made cinnamon rolls for the family, his family. Sage’s Papa loved them.

Then one day, Papa took a bite out of the roll, then immediately spit it back out, confused. Sage-the-boy was laughing. Couldn’t breathe, doubled over laughing. His sister, too. His Mama just held a wry smile.

It was April first. The day of fools and pranks. Papa thought it was funny, too. But he complained. Sage had stopped making rolls after that, and Papa had died before Sage opened his Bakery.

Sage finished the story, then spoke “If you need a job, come back tomorrow. Or whenever. My kids, they’re in college.”

The boy left. He understood. Maybe.

Sage worked. The fog lifted. Sun warmed the room. It felt right. He liked it.

Afternoons were quiet. Sage cleaned. Prepared for the next day. The oven cooled. He looked at the sea. It was big. Unpredictable. Like life.

He remembered flying. The thrill. Then the crash. The hospital. Long nights. Plans changing. He didn't miss it much now. He had new skies. His bakery. His bread. His rolls.

A couple came in. Regulars. They smiled. Talked about their day. Chose a baguette. Sage wrapped it. They liked his bread. That was enough.

Sage closed up. The sky turned orange, then purple. The sea darkened. He locked the door. Walked home. The streets of Carmel were quiet. Peaceful.

His house was small. Like his bakery. He made dinner. Simple food. Ate. Sat by the window. Looked at the stars. They were bright. Clear. Far away.

He thought about the boy. His leg. The soccer dream. Maybe he'd come back. Maybe he'd find something new. Like Sage did.

The bed was comfortable. He kissed his wife, the first-grade teacher. She was as beautiful as the day they met. The day the Salted Cinnamon opened. He slept well. The sea was close. He could hear it. Dreaming new dreams. That was life. You made it what you could. Sage did. With bread. And cinnamon rolls. And a small bakery in Carmel.

He'd fly again. In his way. Every day. With every loaf he baked. Every customer he met. That was flying. That was living. Sage knew. He closed his eyes. The sea whispered. He listened.