Fragile gift kept alive by blood, sacrifice at border

Yesterday, I stepped out to pick up a loaf of bread from a nearby bakery. The moment I entered, the world outside seemed to come to a pause.

- Aastha Bagga

Yesterday, I stepped out to pick up a loaf of bread from a nearby bakery. The moment I entered, the world outside seemed to come to a pause. The place wrapped itself around me like a quiet embrace — soft, amber lighting, the comforting scent of warm loaves mingling with the sweet whisper of vanilla, and fairy lights curled lovingly around old wooden beams like forgotten wishes.

The girl at the counter, all smiles and warmth, asked me to wait a moment while she packed my order. I took a seat near the window, letting the hush of the space settle over me.

Outside, life passed by gently — ordinary, unbothered. For a brief moment, everything felt still, almost sacred. As if the world hadn't been shaken. As if nothing was burning at the borders. As if peace were a birthright, not a fragile gift kept alive by blood and sacrifice.

Then a voice broke through.