Saif ul Islam

Every morning, the village bakery filled with the scent of fresh bread and laughter. It was run by Madame Léa, an elderly widow with silver hair and kind eyes. Her hands were rough from years of kneading dough, but they moved with love — as if every loaf carried a story. In the corner of the bakery window sat a small wooden chair. No one ever used it, but it was always there. Dustless. Waiting. People often asked, “Why the chair, Madame Léa?” She would smile and say, “It’s for someone who’s lost their way.” No one understood what she meant — not really. They just thought it was one of her old traditions, like putting sugar on the croissants or talking to her late husband’s photo while baking. But one rainy morning, everything changed. A boy — no older than 17 — stood outside the bakery. His coat was torn, his eyes sunken, and his shoes soaked through. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stared at the warm light coming from the window, and the chair inside. Léa saw him and opened the door. “You’ll freeze out there, mon garçon. Come in.” The boy hesitated, then stepped inside. "Sit," she said, pointing to the chair. He sat. Silent. Wet. Alone. She didn't ask his name. She didn't ask what he'd done or where he'd come from. Instead, she placed a warm piece of bread in his hands. He ate slowly, like someone who hadn't tasted kindness in a long time. Over the next few weeks, the boy returned every morning. He never said much. But Léa always had bread ready, and the chair was always empty waiting for him. One day, he spoke. Just one sentence. "Why do you let me stay?" Léa didn't look up from her dough. "Because once, I sat in that chair too." The boy blinked. She nodded, gently kneading the dough. "After the war, I lost everything. My husband. My home. I walked into this very bakery - it wasn't mine then and the owner, old Monsieur Bernard, gave me bread and a chair. He told me, 'This chair is for the broken, until they find the strength to stand again.broken, until they find the strength to stand again." The boy looked at her, his eyes filling. Léa smiled. "You don't have to tell me what broke you. You just have to let the bread remind you you're still human." Years passed. The boy - his name was Marc- grew into a man. He left the village, joined a trade school, and became a baker himself. He opened a small shop in another town. But every winter, he returned to Saint-Étienne-sur-Lac. To the bakery. To the woman who saved him with nothing but bread and a chair. One winter, he returned to find the bakery closed. A sign hung in the window. "The chair is yours now. Love, Léa." Marc opened the door. The shop was still warm. Still smelled like her. In the corner sat the chair. Waiting. And from that day on, Marc made sure it was never empty for anyone who had lost their way. Léa saw him and opened the door. "You'll freeze out there, mon garçon. Come in.