The bread is dry. You know this. The crust has turned to stone, hard as the riverbed in winter. You hold it in your hand, the warmth of your palm seeping into the crumb. It is not enough. It was never enough.

You are alone. The night is vast and black. The stars are cold pins in the dark cloth of the sky. You walk. Your boots strike the earth. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound is your own heartbeat. You are a boy. You are small. You are afraid.

You have been walking for three days. You do not know how long. Time has lost its shape. It is only hunger. It is only the cold. You carry the loaf. It is your mother’s last gift. She pressed it into your hands. Her fingers were thin. They trembled.

"Keep it," she said. "Do not let it go. Do not let it break."

You did not understand then. You understand now. The bread is a mirror. It shows you what you are. It shows you what you were. It shows you what you will become.

The forest is thick. The trees are old. Their branches claw at the moon. You see a face in the bark. It is your face. It is smiling. It is mocking. You look away. You do not want to see. You do not want to be seen.

You stop. You sit on a stone. The stone is cold. It bites into your back. You look at the bread. It is white. It is pale. It is the color of bone. You tear off a piece. The crust flakes away. It falls to the ground. You do not pick it up. You do not care.

You eat the crumb. It tastes of dust. It tastes of ash. It tastes of nothing. Your mouth is dry. Your tongue is swollen. You swallow. It is hard. It scrapes against your throat.

A shadow moves. You freeze. Your heart stops. Then it beats again. Fast. Fast. Fast.

A figure stands in the path. It is tall. It is thin. It wears a cloak of gray. Its face is hidden. You do not breathe. You hold the bread tight. The crust cracks under your grip. A piece falls. You watch it land. It is gone.

The figure steps forward. It is an old man. His eyes are like holes in the dark. They are empty. They are full.

"Boy," he says. His voice is dry. Like leaves on the ground.

You do not speak. You cannot.

"You carry the pale thing," he says. He points to your hand.

"Yes," you say. The word is a whisper. It is a lie.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Bread," you say.

He laughs. It is a dry sound. Like cracking bone.

"It is not bread," he says. "It is a trap. It is a chain. It binds you to the past. It binds you to her."

You look at the bread. It is shrinking. The crumb is disappearing. The crust is turning to dust.

"Let it go," he says.

"No," you say. You pull your hand back. You clench your fist. The bread is hard. It hurts your palm. You do not care.

"Your mother is gone," he says. "She is in the earth. She is in the rain. She is in the wind. She is not in the bread."

"She gave it to me," you say. "She said to keep it."

"She said to survive," he says. "She did not say to suffer. She did not say to starve. She did not say to forget who you are."

You look at the old man. You want to believe him. You do not want to believe him. The truth is a sharp stone. It cuts your hand.

"Who am I?" you ask.

He smiles. It is a sad smile.

"You are the one who walks," he says. "You are the one who is hungry. You are the one who is alive. The bread is only a memory. And memories are heavy. They sink you. They drag you down."

You look at the bread. It is almost gone. Only a small piece remains. It is white. It is pale. It is like a ghost.

"I cannot let it go," you say.

"Then you will die here," he says. "In the dark. With your mother’s last meal in your hand. Is that what you want? Is that what she wanted?"

You think of her. Her face. Her hands. Her voice. "Keep it." The words echo in your head. They are a command. They are a curse.

You close your eyes. You feel the weight of the bread. It is heavy. It is so heavy. It is heavier than your body. It is heavier than your soul.

You open your eyes. The old man is gone. The path is empty. The forest is silent.

You are alone again.

You look at the bread. It is in your hand. It is white. It is pale.

You lift it to your mouth. You bite. The crust is hard. It breaks. The crumb is soft. It is dry. It is dust.

You chew. You swallow. It is not food. It is pain. It is loss. It is the end of something you cannot name.

You drop the rest. It falls to the ground. It lands on the stone. It is white. It is pale. It is gone.

You stand up. Your legs shake. They are weak. They are empty.

You look at the sky. The stars are bright. They are cold. They are far away.

You walk. You do not look back. You do not turn around. You do not remember the bread. You do not remember the old man. You do not remember your mother.

You are only you. You are only the walker. You are only the hunger.

The night is long. The road is dark. You walk. Your boots strike the earth. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound is your own heartbeat. It is steady. It is strong.

You are free. You are empty. You are full.

You do not know which is which. It does not matter.

You walk on.