The lighthouse keeper had not spoken to another soul in eleven years. He had, however, baked for them. Every Monday, he left a basket of bread on the harbour wall. Fishermen collected it before dawn and returned the basket filled with eggs, vegetables or jars of honey. No money changed hands. No words were exchanged. The arrangement worked perfectly until Sofia arrived from the city. She had purchased the abandoned harbour office with plans to open a café. Unfortunately, her cooking was disastrous. Her cakes collapsed, her soup tasted metallic and her bread could have survived cannon fire. One morning, she discovered the keeper’s basket. The loaf inside was still warm. She followed the path to the lighthouse and found him kneading dough in a tiny kitchen. “I need your help,” she said. He shook his head. “I’ll pay you.” Another shake. “I won’t make you speak.” He paused. The café opened three weeks later. Sofia served coffee while the keeper supplied bread, pastries and pies through the back door. Customers travelled from distant towns to taste them. Because he refused to reveal his name, newspapers called him the Silent Baker. The mystery made the café famous. Eventually, Sofia discovered why he had withdrawn from the world. Years earlier, cruel reviews had destroyed his restaurant and his confidence. He had come to the lighthouse intending to stay only one summer. Sofia framed the old reviews and hung them beside the café’s glowing new ones. When the landlord offered her the neighboring building, she imagined a bakery downstairs and a small home above it. She had no savings and the tourist season ended in a month. She signed the lease anyway, certain the rent would somehow pay itself.