You count the loaves.

One. Two. Three.

The stone is cold.

The air is thick.

It tastes of ash.

And old blood.

You are here.

In the deep.

The walls breathe.

They do not stop.

They never stop.

You are a sinner.

You know this.

You wrote it down.

In ink that dried black.

Like dried tears.

Your sister, Elara.

She is gone.

Or is she?

No.

She is in the bread.

This is the lie.

This is the truth.

The baker, Thomas.

He stands before you.

He is tall.

He is thin.

His hands are white.

Flour dust.

Like snow.

Like death.

"More?" he asks.

His voice is soft.

A rasp.

Like dry leaves.

"No," you say.

You do not move.

You look at the grid.

The wooden table.

It is old.

It is stained.

With grease.

With time.

With your sin.

You are poor.

You are hungry.

But you do not eat.

Why?

Because you promised.

To who?

To the dark.

To the silence.

To the memory.

Elara died young.

Fever.

A wasting.

She was beautiful.

Too beautiful.

For this world.

For this hunger.

You tried to save her.

You stole.

You lied.

You sold her hair.

You sold her dresses.

But the bread was still too dear.

The gold was never enough.

The hunger won.

It always wins.

It eats the poor.

It eats the proud.

It eats the soul.

Thomas watches you.

His eyes are kind.

But kind is cruel.

When you are broken.

"Take it," he says.

He pushes the tray.

The bread is warm.

It smells of yeast.

Of life.

You reach out.

Your hand shakes.

It is a traitor.

It wants to feed.

It wants to live.

But you pull back.

You look at him.

"Is it clean?" you ask.

He frowns.

"What do you mean?"

"Is it clean?" you repeat.

Your voice is hard.

Sharp.

Like a knife.

He steps back.

Fear in his eyes.

He sees it.

The madness.

In your face.

In your teeth.

"Of course," he says.

"Made this morning."

"By whom?" you ask.

"Me," he says.

"Your hands?" you ask.

"Yes."

"Did you wash them?"

He looks at his hands.

The flour is still there.

He nods.

"I washed them."

"Lies," you say.

You laugh.

It is a dry sound.

Like cracking bones.

"You did not wash them."

"I did!" he shouts.

He is angry now.

The fear is gone.

Replaced by anger.

You smile.

It is a sad smile.

"I know," you say.

"I know you did not."

He does not understand.

He is a servant.

You are the master.

Of your own ruin.

Of your own cage.

You stand up.

The chair scrapes.

The sound is loud.

It echoes.

In the small room.

In the dark.

You walk to him.

He steps back.

Against the wall.

You are close.

Too close.

You smell his sweat.

Fear.

And bread.

You smell the yeast.

The life.

The death.

You look at his hands.

They are shaking.

Like yours.

Like everyone’s.

We are all trembling.

We are all hungry.

We are all alone.

"Elara," you whisper.

His name is a stone.

In your throat.

You cannot spit it out.

You swallow it.

It burns.

It hurts.

It is right.

"You made it," you say.

"For her."

He blinks.

Confused.

"What?"

"Elara," you say.

"Your daughter."

He freezes.

His face goes white.

Not from flour.

From shock.

"Who?" he asks.

"Elara," you say.

"Your daughter.

The one who died.

Last winter.

The fever."

He stares at you.

His mouth opens.

No sound comes out.

You are right.

He has a daughter.

Or he had.

He does not remember.

Or he does not care.

But you know.

You know everything.

Because you are the sinner.

You carry the weight.

Of the dead.

Of the hungry.

Of the lie.

"You fed her," you say.

"With the last loaf.

When the money ran out.

You fed her.

And you watched.

As she starved.

Because you kept the rest.

For yourself.

For your pride."

He shakes his head.

"Stop," he says.

"Stop it."

"Did you?" you ask.

"Yes," he says.

"I did."

He is crying now.

Tears cut tracks.

In the flour on his face.

Like rivers.

Of shame.

"You are a monster," you say.

"Or are you just hungry?"

He looks down.

At his hands.

They are still.

No more shaking.

The truth is a anchor.

It holds him down.

It holds you down.

In the mud.

In the dark.

In the bread.

You take the loaf.

You do not ask.

You take it.

You break it.

Your hands are strong.

For once.

You pull it apart.

The steam rises.

It looks like smoke.

Like ghosts.

Like Elara.

You look at Thomas.

He is small now.

Broken.

Like you.

Like us.

You give him a piece.

He stares at it.

Then he takes it.

He eats.

Slowly.

His eyes are closed.

You eat too.

The taste is bitter.

Salty.

With tears.

With blood.

With life.

It is not sweet.

It is not kind.

It is real.

You chew.

You swallow.

It burns.

It heals.

Nothing heals.

But you keep eating.

You eat until the plate is empty.

Until your hands are clean.

Until the hunger is gone.

Or until you are.

Thomas looks at you.

There is no fear left.

Only pity.

Only shared pain.

You are not masters.

You are not slaves.

You are just men.

In a room.

With bread.

And a ghost.

The ghost is gone.

The bread is gone.

The room is empty.

But the taste remains.

On your lips.

In your throat.

In your heart.

It stays.

It never leaves.

You stand up.

The chair does not scrape.

It is silent.

You walk to the door.

The wood is heavy.

You push it open.

The night is cold.

The stars are out.

They are bright.

They are far.

They do not care.

They do not hunger.

They do not sin.

They just are.

You step out.

The air is sharp.

It cuts your skin.

You breathe it in.

It is clean.

It is free.

You walk into the dark.

You do not look back.

There is nothing to see.

Only the past.

Only the weight.

Only the bread.

In your stomach.

In your soul.

You are full.

You are empty.

You are alone.

But you are here.

In the world.

In the night.

In the life.

It is enough.

It is never enough.

But you walk.

You keep walking.

Into the dark.

Into the unknown.

Into the end.

The end is not a door.

It is a wall.

You walk into it.

You do not stop.

You do not slow.

You just go.

Because you must.

Because you are.

Because the bread was there.

And it was gone.

And you were left.

With the taste.

Of everything.

And nothing.

You are free.

You are trapped.

It is the same.

It is the same.

It is the same.

You smile.

In the dark.

No one sees.

No one cares.

But you smile.

Because you remember.

Elara.

The bread.

The lie.

The truth.

The hunger.

The fullness.

The end.

You are the sinner.

You are the saint.

You are the man.

You are the ghost.

You are the bread.

You are the hunger.

You are the dark.

You are the light.

You are nothing.

You are everything.

And it is enough.

And it is not.

And you walk on.

Into the night.

Into the end.

Into the silence.

The silence is loud.

The silence is soft.

The silence is you.

The silence is me.

The silence is us.

We are all here.

In the dark.

With the bread.

And the hunger.

And the love.

And the loss.

And the end.

It is beautiful.

It is terrible.

It is true.

You close your eyes.

You feel the taste.

On your lips.

It is fading.

But it is there.

It is always there.

It is the mark.

Of your life.

Of your sin.

Of your redemption.

Or your damnation.

Who can tell?

Who can know?

Only the dark.

Only the bread.

Only the hunger.

You open your eyes.

The night is gone.

The dawn is here.

It is grey.

It is pale.

It is new.

You walk into it.

You walk into the light.

You walk into the day.

You walk into the world.

And you are alone.

And you are together.

And you are free.

And you are bound.

And you are here.

And you are gone.

And you are the bread.

And you are the hunger.

And you are the end.

And you are the beginning.

And you are the middle.

And you are the silence.

And you are the sound.

And you are the lie.

And you are the truth.

And you are the sinner.

And you are the saint.

And you are the man.

And you are the ghost.

And you are the love.

And you are the loss.

And you are the hunger.

And you are the fullness.

And you are the dark.

And you are the light.

And you are the end.

And you are the start.

And you are here.

And you are there.

And you are everywhere.

And you are nowhere.

And you are enough.

And you are not.

And you walk.

And you stop.

And you walk.

And you die.

And you live.

And you are.

The bread is gone.

The taste remains.

The silence is loud.

The light is bright.

The end is here.

The beginning is there.

The middle is now.

You are now.

You are here.

You are the story.

You are the teller.

You are the listener.

You are the end.

You are the start.

You are the bread.

You are the hunger.

You are the love.

You are the loss.

You are the truth.

You are the lie.

You are the sinner.

You are the saint.

You are the man.

You are the ghost.

You are the dark.

You are the light.

You are the silence.

You are the sound.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the middle.

You are the now.

You are the here.

You are the there.

You are the everywhere.

You are the nowhere.

You are the enough.

You are the not.

You are the walk.

You are the stop.

You are the die.

You are the live.

You are the is.

You are the was.

You are the will be.

You are the bread.

You are the hunger.

You are the love.

You are the loss.

You are the truth.

You are the lie.

You are the sinner.

You are the saint.

You are the man.

You are the ghost.

You are the dark.

You are the light.

You are the silence.

You are the sound.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the middle.

You are the now.

You are the here.

You are the there.

You are the everywhere.

You are the nowhere.

You are the enough.

You are the not.

You are the walk.

You are the stop.

You are the die.

You are the live.

You are the is.

You are the was.

You are the will be.