Every morning the same choreography: aunties with canvas bags, a delivery rider leaning on his phone, steam lifting from the tray of kaya buns. The shop opens at seven sharp; the queue starts at six-fifty.
The bakery sits on a corner I pass whether or not I plan to buy anything. Some days I only watch the queue. The ritual belongs to the neighbourhood — not to me, but I am allowed to stand in it.
I started counting nods when the door chime rings — how many strangers acknowledge each other on the way in. Last week: four out of six. The week before: three. No funding body will commission this study.
Courtesy here is physical: stepping aside for older hands, holding the door half a second longer than necessary, the small lift of chin that means I see you without requiring conversation.
The city is loud elsewhere — construction, MRT announcements, phone calls on speaker. In this queue it is briefly gentle. Kaya smell replaces exhaust. For five minutes we are not commuters; we are people who want bread.
I buy two buns when I write — one to eat walking, one for the desk. The second bun cools beside the keyboard and gets eaten without tasting. That is also a kind of morning.