locomonk

 At the end of a narrow, sunny road in a small, quiet town stood a quaint bakery made of rich red bricks.  The bakery had stood there for many years, and the baker was known by everyone in town.  His father had given him the bakery, and his grandfather had built it over fifty years ago.  Behind the bakery stretched a lush green field, filled with long grasses and dappled with rocks and bushes. It had been left to nature long ago, before the bakery had been built, before the baker’s grandfather had been born, before there had even been a town. Many animals used this field.  In the evening, deer ca