6:03 — The baker props the door open with a flour sack. The town yawns and smells like cinnamon.

6:27 — The paper carrier pedals past porches, tossing headlines that will be old by lunch but matter now.

7:02 — A kid with a trumpet case waits for the early bus, practicing embouchure faces in the window’s reflection.

7:16 — The barber flips the sign to OPEN. His first appointment is a farmer who doesn’t need a trim but likes the talk.

7:33 — At the diner, a couple splits one omelet and all the crossword clues.

7:41 — A jogger slows to tie a shoe and realizes the sky has been beautiful for three blocks without being noticed.

7:59 — The school bell rings. Doors swing. The town trades quiet for purpose.

A map doesn’t have to show streets. Sometimes it shows moments, and the shortest route to belonging is noticing them.