The bread was warm.

It sat on the stone table.

Elara touched it.

The crust cracked.

Steam rose.

It smelled of honey.

And wood.

She looked at the door.

It was locked.

From the outside.

She was here.

She had been here.

For how long?

Days.

Weeks.

The room was small.

Stone walls.

Grey.

Cold to the touch.

But the air was thick.

Sweet.

Heavy.

She took a bite.

The taste was strange.

Not just bread.

It was memory.

It was grief.

It was gold.

She chewed slowly.

Swallowed.

The pain in her chest faded.

She looked at her hands.

They were clean.

They were young.

She was Elara.

She was the baker.

Or so she thought.

The door creaked.

She froze.

The handle turned.

Slowly.

The door opened.

A man stood there.

He was tall.

He wore a suit.

Black.

Sharp.

His face was pale.

His eyes were dark.

He looked at her.

He looked at the bread.

He did not smile.

“Eat,” he said.

His voice was low.

Rough.

Like gravel.

“I ate,” she said.

Her voice was soft.

He stepped inside.

The door closed.

Locked.

He sat opposite her.

He watched her.

“Again,” he said.

“No,” she said.

She pushed the plate away.

Her hands shook.

He leaned forward.

His shadow fell over her.

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

She looked at the wall.

There was a crack.

Small.

Thin.

Like a vein.

“I am tired,” she said.

He sighed.

He reached into his pocket.

He pulled out a knife.

Small.

Silver.

Sharp.

He placed it on the table.

Between them.

“Cut,” he said.

“What?” she asked.

“The bread,” he said.

“It is done,” she said.

“It is not,” he said.

He pushed the plate toward her.

The smell was stronger.

Sweet.

Cloying.

She looked at the knife.

She looked at him.

He did not blink.

He did not breathe.

He just waited.

She picked up the knife.

It was cold.

Heavy.

She cut the bread.

The knife slid easily.

The bread fell apart.

It was soft.

White.

Like snow.

She ate.

The taste was overwhelming.

It was not bread.

It was her life.

Every joy.

Every sorrow.

Every kiss.

Every tear.

It was all there.

In the crumb.

In the sugar.

She wept.

The tears fell on the table.

He watched.

He did not offer a hand.

He did not offer a word.

He just watched.

When she was done.

She pushed the plate away.

“I am full,” she said.

He nodded.

He stood up.

He picked up the knife.

He wiped it on his sleeve.

He put it away.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

The light outside was bright.

White.

Blinding.

He stepped out.

The door closed.

The lock clicked.

She was alone.

The room was quiet.

The air was still.

She looked at her hands.

They were stained.

Brown.

Like dirt.

Like blood.

She wiped them on her dress.

The stain remained.

She looked at the crack in the wall.

It was wider.

It glowed.

A faint light.

Blue.

Cold.

She touched it.

It was warm.

She felt a pull.

Gentle.

Strong.

She leaned in.

She looked through the crack.

She saw a field.

Green.

Endless.

Grass swaying.

Wind blowing.

She saw a woman.

Walking.

Alone.

The woman was Elara.

But older.

Her hair was white.

Her face was lined.

She carried a basket.

On her back.

She walked toward a house.

A small house.

White.

With a red roof.

The Elara in the field stopped.

She turned.

She looked at the crack.

She looked at Elara.

Their eyes met.

The Elara in the field smiled.

It was a sad smile.

A knowing smile.

She raised a hand.

She waved.

Then she turned.

She walked to the house.

The door opened.

She went in.

The door closed.

The field was empty.

The light faded.

The crack was just a crack.

Dark.

Dry.

Elara pulled back.

Her heart pounded.

She looked at the table.

The plate was clean.

The knife was gone.

The bread was gone.

Only the stain remained.

On her hands.

On the table.

Brown.

Like dirt.

Like blood.

The door creaked.

It opened.

The man was there.

He looked at her.

He looked at the stain.

He did not speak.

He sat down.

He placed a new loaf on the table.

It was fresh.

Hot.

Steam rising.

The smell was overwhelming.

Sweet.

Cloying.

Heavy.

“Eat,” he said.

“No,” she said.

She stood up.

She backed away.

“Please,” she said.

Her voice broke.

He did not move.

He did not look at her.

He looked at the bread.

“Eat,” he said.

“I can’t,” she said.

She looked at the wall.

The crack was there.

Dark.

Dead.

She thought of the woman.

The white hair.

The basket.

The house.

The life.

It was a lie.

A trap.

The bread was the lie.

The taste was the lie.

The memory was the lie.

It was all a drug.

A poison.

To keep her here.

To keep her eating.

To keep her forgetting.

She looked at the man.

He was not a man.

He was a shadow.

A shape.

A hunger.

He was the jailer.

And she was the prisoner.

But she was not a prisoner of the room.

She was a prisoner of the taste.

Of the need.

Of the sweetness.

She was addicted.

To the past.

To the pain.

To the comfort of the crumb.

She looked at the loaf.

It pulsed.

Like a heart.

Red.

White.

Warm.

It called to her.

It promised peace.

It promised oblivion.

She wanted it.

She wanted it so badly.

It hurt.

It ached.

In her bones.

In her soul.

She stepped forward.

Her hand reached out.

Her fingers touched the crust.

It was hot.

She pulled back.

She gasped.

She looked at the man.

He was smiling.

Now.

It was a thin smile.

Cold.

Sharp.

“Why?” she asked.

“No reason,” he said.

“Just eat,” he said.

She shook her head.

She stepped back.

She looked at the wall.

The crack was there.

She looked at the door.

It was locked.

She looked at the table.

The loaf was there.

She was trapped.

By the bread.

By the taste.

By the memory.

She closed her eyes.

She breathed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

She thought of the woman.

The white hair.

The basket.

The house.

The life.

It was real.

It was not the bread.

It was not the lie.

It was the truth.

The truth was hard.

The truth was cold.

The truth was grey.

Like the stone walls.

She opened her eyes.

She looked at the loaf.

She picked up the knife.

It was there.

On the table.

Cold.

Heavy.

She cut the loaf.

The bread fell apart.

She did not eat it.

She threw it on the floor.

The man stood up.

His face was angry.

His eyes were dark.

“You fool,” he said.

His voice was loud.

Sharp.

He lunged at her.

She backed away.

He grabbed her arm.

It was cold.

Like ice.

She screamed.

The sound echoed.

In the stone room.

He pulled her toward the table.

Toward the bread.

Toward the taste.

She struggled.

She kicked.

She bit.

She spat.

He did not let go.

He held her tight.

He lifted the bread.

He put it in her mouth.

She chewed.

She swallowed.

The taste flooded her.

Sweet.

Cloying.

Heavy.

It was her life.

Every joy.

Every sorrow.

Every kiss.

Every tear.

It was all there.

In the crumb.

In the sugar.

She wept.

The tears fell.

On the table.

On the floor.

On the bread.

The man held her.

He watched.

He waited.

When she was done.

He let go.

He stepped back.

He sat down.

He picked up the knife.

He wiped it.

He put it away.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

The light was bright.

White.

Blinding.

He stepped out.

The door closed.

The lock clicked.

She was alone.

The room was quiet.

The air was still.

She looked at her hands.

They were stained.

Brown.

Like dirt.

Like blood.

She looked at the crack.

It was wider.

It glowed.

Blue.

Cold.

She touched it.

It was warm.

She felt a pull.

Gentle.

Strong.

She leaned in.

She looked through the crack.

She saw the field.

Green.

Endless.

Grass swaying.

Wind blowing.

She saw the woman.

Walking.

Alone.

The woman was Elara.

But older.

Her hair was white.

Her face was lined.

She carried a basket.

On her back.

She walked toward the house.

The Elara in the field stopped.

She turned.

She looked at the crack.

She looked at Elara.

Their eyes met.

The Elara in the field smiled.

It was a sad smile.

A knowing smile.

She raised a hand.

She waved.

Then she turned.

She walked to the house.

The door opened.

She went in.

The door closed.

The field was empty.

The light faded.

The crack was just a crack.

Dark.

Dry.

Elara pulled back.

Her heart pounded.

She looked at the table.

The plate was clean.

The knife was gone.

The bread was gone.

Only the stain remained.

On her hands.

On the table.

Brown.

Like dirt.

Like blood.

The door creaked.

It opened.

The man was there.

He looked at her.

He looked at the stain.

He did not speak.

He sat down.

He placed a new loaf on the table.

It was fresh.

Hot.

Steam rising.

The smell was overwhelming.

Sweet.

Cloying.

Heavy.

“Eat,” he said.

“No,” she said.

She stood up.

She backed away.

“Please,” she said.

Her voice broke.

He did not move.

He did not look at her.

He looked at the bread.

“Eat,” he said.

“I can’t,” she said.

She looked at the wall.

The crack was there.

Dark.

Dead.

She thought of the woman.

The white hair.

The basket.

The house.

The life.

It was a lie.

A trap.

The bread was the lie.

The taste was the lie.

The memory was the lie.

It was all a drug.

A poison.

To keep her here.

To keep her eating.

To keep her forgetting.

She looked at the man.

He was not a man.

He was a shadow.

A shape.

A hunger.

He was the jailer.

And she was the prisoner.

But she was not a prisoner of the room.

She was a prisoner of the taste.

Of the need.

Of the sweetness.

She was addicted.

To the past.

To the pain.

To the comfort of the crumb.

She looked at the loaf.

It pulsed.

Like a heart.

Red.

White.

Warm.

It called to her.

It promised peace.

It promised oblivion.

She wanted it.

She wanted it so badly.

It hurt.

It ached.

In her bones.

In her soul.

She stepped forward.

Her hand reached out.

Her fingers touched the crust.

It was hot.

She pulled back.

She gasped.

She looked at the man.

He was smiling.

Now.

It was a thin smile.

Cold.

Sharp.

“Why?” she asked.

“No reason,” he said.

“Just eat,” he said.

She shook her head.

She stepped back.

She looked at the wall.

The crack was there.

She looked at the door.

It was locked.

She looked at the table.

The loaf was there.

She was trapped.

By the bread.

By the taste.

By the memory.

She closed her eyes.

She breathed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

She thought of the woman.

The white hair.

The basket.

The house.

The life.

It was real.

It was not the bread.

It was not the lie.

It was the truth.

The truth was hard.

The truth was cold.

The truth was grey.

Like the stone walls.

She opened her eyes.

She looked at the loaf.

She picked up the knife.

It was there.

On the table.

Cold.

Heavy.

She cut the loaf.

The bread fell apart.

She did not eat it.

She threw it on the floor.

The man stood up.

His face was angry.

His eyes were dark.

“You fool,” he said.

His voice was loud.

Sharp.

He lunged at her.

She backed away.

He grabbed her arm.

It was cold.

Like ice.

She screamed.

The sound echoed.

In the stone room.

He pulled her toward the table.

Toward the bread.

Toward the taste.

She struggled.

She kicked.

She bit.

She spat.

He did not let go.

He held her tight.

He lifted the bread.

He put it in her mouth.

She chewed.

She swallowed.

The taste flooded her.

Sweet.

Cloying.

Heavy.

It was her life.

Every joy.

Every sorrow.

Every kiss.

Every tear.

It was all there.

In the crumb.

In the sugar.

She wept.

The tears fell.

On the table.

On the floor.

On the bread.

The man held her.

He watched.

He waited.

When she was done.

He let go.

He stepped back.

He sat down.

He picked up the knife.

He wiped it.

He put it away.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

The light was bright.

White.

Blinding.

He stepped out.

The door closed.

The lock clicked.

She was alone.

The room was quiet.

The air was still.

She looked at her hands.

They were stained.

Brown.

Like dirt.

Like blood.

She looked at the crack.

It was wider.

It glowed.

Blue.

Cold.

She touched it.

It was warm.

She felt a pull.

Gentle.

Strong.

She leaned in.

She looked through the crack.

She saw the field.

Green.

Endless.

Grass swaying.

Wind blowing.

She saw the woman.

Walking.

Alone.

The woman was Elara.

But older.

Her hair was white.

Her face was lined.

She carried a basket.

On her back.

She walked toward the house.

The Elara in the field stopped.

She turned.

She looked at the crack.

She looked at Elara.

Their eyes met.

The Elara in the field smiled.

It was a sad smile.

A knowing smile.

She raised a hand.

She waved.

Then she turned.

She walked to the house.

The door opened.

She went in.

The door closed.

The field was empty.

The light faded.

The crack was just a crack.

Dark.

Dry.

Elara pulled back.

Her heart pounded.

She looked at the table.

The plate was clean.

The knife was gone.

The bread was gone.

Only the stain remained.

On her hands.

On the table.

Brown.

Like dirt.

Like blood.