Bramble was a dragon with a job.
Every night, when the baker went home to bed, Bramble sat outside the bakery door and guarded it. She was very good at guarding. She had a fierce frown, a long swishy tail, and a rumbly growl that could scare away foxes, badgers, and, once, a very surprised postman.
There was only one problem with guarding a bakery.
The smell.
Every night, just before dawn, the baker came back and lit the big oven. And the smell of fresh bread came creeping under the door — warm and golden and buttery — and curled around Bramble’s nose like a friendly ribbon.
Sniff. Bramble’s tummy rumbled.
Sniff sniff. Bramble’s frown wobbled.
SNIFF SNIFF SNIFF. Bramble forgot all about guarding and pressed her whole face against the window.
“I am a fierce guard dragon,” she reminded herself sternly. “Fierce guard dragons do not think about bread.”
She thought about bread.
She thought about crusty bread and soft bread. Round bread and long bread. Bread with seeds on top and bread with butter melting into it. She thought about bread so hard that a tiny puff of smoke came out of her ears.
The baker, inside, looked up and saw a large dragon face squashed against his window with its eyes closed and its nose twitching.
He was not scared. He had known Bramble a long time.
He opened the door. “Bramble,” he said, “are you guarding the bakery, or are you guarding the bread?”
Bramble opened one eye. “Both?” she said hopefully.
The baker laughed, and went inside, and came back with a small loaf, fresh from the oven, still steaming.
“A guard dragon needs her strength,” he said.
Bramble held the loaf in her front paws. It was warm. It smelled like every good morning that had ever happened. She took one careful bite, then another, and then — well, it was a small loaf.
Then she yawned an enormous yawn, curled up on the bakery step, and fell fast asleep with crumbs on her nose.
She did not guard anything for the rest of the night. But the baker didn’t mind. After all, who would dare rob a bakery with a sleeping dragon on the step?
Nobody. That’s who.
Sweet dreams, Bramble. And sweet dreams to you — with just a little smell of warm bread, drifting in at the edge of your sleep.
🌙 The End 🌙
Sweet dreams, little one.
✨ The Sunday Story Club
A brand-new bedtime story lands every Sunday. Join free — no spam, ever.
