The bakery opens before dawn, when the streets are still cool and the first light catches the edges of phyllo dough, thin as whispered secrets. Layer upon layer, brushed with butter that glistens like morning dew, cradling pistachios and walnuts roasted until they sing. Honey syrup poured slow and golden, seeping into every buttered fold, while cinnamon dust settles like fine snow across the tray. The oven exhales warmth — a language older than borders, sweeter than memory. This is the scent of hands that have folded a thousand layers, of celebrations that span coastlines, of a pastry so perfectly shared it belongs to no one and everyone at once.