In a small village in Tuscany

In a small village in Tuscany, there's a bakery that opens every morning at 4:30. No one knows exactly how long it's been there. The smell of fresh bread drifts through the still-dark streets, and every now and then, someone stops by to buy a steaming loaf before heading to work. The baker's name is Mario. He's 74 years old. For 51 years, every single day without missing a morning, he's kneaded, baked, and arranged the loaves on the counter—all by himself. No vacations, no days off. When people ask him why he doesn't retire, he simply replies, "As long as someone needs warm bread in the morning, I'll be here." But what truly moves people isn't just his dedication. It's what he does every Friday, without ever telling anyone. Every Friday at 6:00 a.m., Mario leaves five bags filled with bread and focaccia at the door of the small local preschool—an old building with walls covered in children's drawings. No one sees him, but the teachers know. They found out years ago by checking the security cameras to discover who was leaving the anonymous gift. Once, they tried to thank him, but he only said, "The bread is for those who are growing. I lost my son when he was five. This is how I keep his memory alive." Since that day, every Friday, the children find their "magic bread" waiting for them, and the teachers tell them the story of Mario—without ever saying his name, out of respect. They call him "The Baker of the Heart." A month ago, Mario fell ill. For the first time in half a century, the bakery stayed closed. Word spread throughout the village, and the following Sunday, more than 200 people gathered outside his bakery. Each person held a homemade roll in their hand. In silence, they waited for the light inside to turn on. Mario came out wearing a flour-stained apron, his eyes full of emotion. He said only one thing: "I thought that after all this time, no one would remember me. But you are my warm bread."