The Midnight Baker
"Insomniac Layla discovers a bakery open at 3 AM—and baker Khalil, whose nocturnal rhythms match hers in more ways than one."
The Midnight Baker
Sleep had abandoned Layla years ago—residue from a war-zone childhood, doctors said. She wandered Jerusalem's streets at 3 AM, envying the dreams she couldn't access.
Then she found the light.
A bakery, impossibly open, warm glow spilling through frosted windows. She pushed through the door.
"You look terrible."
The baker was her age, flour-dusted, with the particular bright-eyed look of someone who lived in darkness.
"Thanks. I can't sleep."
"Neither can I." He slid a pastry across the counter. "Which is why I bake. Ka'ak?"
She returned every night. Khalil worked in companionable silence, letting her sit and watch, occasionally explaining technique.
"Why nights?" she asked.
"The bread doesn't care what time it is. And at night, no customers. No noise. Just me and the dough."
"That sounds lonely."
"It was." His eyes met hers. "Past tense."
They developed rituals. Layla helped with simple tasks—measuring, mixing—while Khalil taught her what he knew.
"You're good," he said, watching her knead. "Steady hands."
"I have practice not shaking."
"From what?"
She told him—the war, the nightmares, the way sleep felt like dying. He listened without judgment, hands never stopping their work.
"I understand," he said finally. "I have my own darkness. That's why I bake. To make something light from the heavy hours."
"Does it work?"
"Sometimes." He moved closer. "More, lately."
They came together at 4 AM, flour on both their hands, the oven's warmth surrounding them.
"This is crazy," Layla breathed.
"Night people are all crazy." Khalil kissed her. "At least we're crazy together."
He made love to her on the flour-dusted counter, their bodies moving in the rhythm of kneading—push, fold, push, fold.
"Ya Allah," he groaned. "Inti zay el khamira." Like yeast. "You make everything rise."
"Khalil—"
"Let go. No nightmares here. Just us."
She let go. For the first time in years, the darkness felt like home.
"Move in with me," Khalil said afterward. "Above the bakery. Night shifts, shared insomnia, someone to hold when 4 AM gets too heavy."
"That's fast."
"We're night people. Time moves differently for us." His eyes were serious. "I've spent years alone in this bakery. I don't want to anymore."
"And you want me?"
"I want someone who understands the darkness. Who won't expect me to be normal." He kissed her forehead. "That's you."
Layla thought of her empty apartment, her endless sleepless hours.
"Na'am," she said. "But I get unlimited ka'ak."
"Obviously."
Outside, Jerusalem slept. Inside, two insomniacs had finally found rest—not in sleep, but in each other.
Some nights, that was enough.