The late afternoon sun slanted through the Congress Gate, casting long shadows across the worn cobblestones. Finnian O'Malley adjusted his satchel and tugged his threadbare cap lower over his brow. The air was thick with the smells of coal smoke and baking bread, a familiar symphony to Finnian's nose. He wasn't sure what had drawn him to New Republic. Perhaps it was the stories his grandmother used to tell about her childhood spent in the shadow of the old congress building. Or maybe it was the quiet hum of history that seemed to emanate from every brick and mortar. Whatever the reason, Finnian felt a sense of belonging here that he hadn't found anywhere else. He had arrived in Pilegron with little more than the clothes on his back and a battered tin containing his grandmother's handwritten recipes. His journey had been long and arduous – a tapestry woven from chance encounters, fleeting jobs, and nights spent huddled under starlit skies. But through it all, Finnian held onto his grandmother's words: "Kindness is its own reward," she'd said, her eyes twinkling with wisdom, "and honest work will always find its place." Those words echoed in Finnian's heart as he set up a small stall outside the bustling market. He spread out a checkered cloth and carefully arranged his grandmother's baked goods – crusty sourdough loaves still warm from the oven, sweet pastries dusted with cinnamon sugar, and dense fruitcakes studded with plump raisins. The aroma, heady and inviting, soon drew a crowd. Finnian wasn't much for talking, preferring to let his creations speak for themselves. But as he watched people savor each bite, their faces softening with delight, he felt a warmth spread through him. In that moment, surrounded by the lively chatter of the market and the sweet scent of his grandmother's baking, Finnian knew he had finally found his place in Pilegron.