Marta's Bakery
The town wakes to her ovens, not the rooster — and nobody, nobody, gets to look at the ledger.
AT FIVE SHARP, THE OVENS SPEAK. While the harbor's still ink-blue, Marta's already hauled the first batch out — crusts loud enough to hear from the dock, where Old Ben nods along like he's checking a tide table. The second batch goes in before dawn breaks, timed so the loaves cool exactly as Kiko unlocks his grocery across the square: close enough to smell what he can't undercut. This is the engine room of the whole valley — half the coin in town passes over her counter before noon, warm and dusted with flour. Look close and you'll spot the extra roll that ends up in Pia's basket 'by mistake,' the day-old loaf that's never quite a day old when a hungry kid comes by. Marta will deny all of it, sharply. And the ledger under the counter? Touch it and lose a finger.
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