This morning I decided to walk a different route to the coffee shop—exactly one block east of my usual path. It's strange how such a small deviation can make a familiar neighborhood feel completely foreign. The light hit the buildings at a different angle, casting long shadows that turned ordinary storefronts into geometric puzzles.
There's a bakery on this street I'd never noticed before, despite walking parallel to it for two years. The window was fogged from the inside, and through it I could see a baker pulling trays from an oven. The smell of butter and yeast stopped me mid-step. This is what I'd been missing by staying in my routine.
I went inside. The woman at the counter looked up and said, "First time?" with a knowing smile. I must have had that particular lost-tourist expression, even though I live four minutes away. "That obvious?" I asked. She laughed and handed me a sample of some kind of twisted pastry that tasted like cardamom and honey.