The carriage stopped. The doors opened. Cold air rushed in. It smelled of wet stone and old wine.

Silas stepped out. His boots sank into the mud. He looked up. The tower loomed. It was black against the grey sky.

He was a baker. That was his name. That was his trade. He had left his village. He had left his wife. He had left his children. He carried only a sack. The sack held flour. The flour was white. It was clean. It was life.

The gatekeeper nodded. He let Silas pass. The gate was iron. It groaned. The sound was loud. It echoed in the hall.

Silas walked. The floor was marble. It was cold. It was smooth. It reflected his face. He saw his eyes. They were tired. They were dark. They were hollow.

He climbed the stairs. The stairs were wide. They were steep. His legs ached. His lungs burned. He did not stop. He could not stop. He had to go up. He had to see.

The door at the top was oak. It was thick. It was heavy. It had no handle. It had no keyhole. Silas pressed his palm against it. The wood was warm. It pulsed. It beat. Like a heart.

The door opened.

The room was round. It was small. The walls were lined with shelves. The shelves held jars. The jars were glass. They were clear. Inside, there was liquid. It was gold. It glowed. It swirled.

There was a table. It was stone. It was round. In the center, there was a bowl. The bowl was empty.

A man sat in the corner. He was old. His hair was white. His face was smooth. He wore a robe. The robe was blue. It was faded.

"You are late," the old man said.

"I am here," Silas said.

"You are early. You are late. Time is a circle. You are in the middle."

Silas looked at the jars. "What is this?"

"It is memory," the old man said. "It is regret. It is joy. It is all the things you have not done. It is the wine of the self."

"I am a baker," Silas said.

"No," the old man said. "You are a vessel. You carry the dough. You shape the bread. But you forget the oven. You forget the heat. You forget the burn."

Silas felt a pain. It was in his chest. It was sharp. It was hot. He touched his ribs. His hand trembled.

"I came to buy flour," Silas said.

"There is no flour here," the old man said. "There is only the truth. Sit."

Silas sat. The chair was cold. It was hard. He did not move.

The old man stood. He walked to the shelves. He took a jar. The jar was heavy. It was full. The gold liquid sloshed. It made a sound. It was like water. It was like song.

The old man poured the liquid into the bowl. The bowl filled. The light grew bright. It filled the room. It touched Silas’s face. It touched his eyes.

Silas saw his village. He saw the bakery. He saw the oven. It was hot. It was red. It was alive. He saw his wife. She stood by the door. She waved. She smiled. Her hair was black. Her eyes were brown.

He saw his children. They ran. They laughed. They played. They were small. They were light.

Then he saw the fire.

The fire started in the flour sack. It was small. It was red. It grew. It ate the walls. It ate the roof. It ate the air.

Silas screamed. He wanted to run. His legs would not move. His arms were stuck. He was in the fire. The heat was immense. It was endless. It was forever.

He saw his wife burn. He saw his children burn. He saw himself burn.

The light faded. The room was dark. The bowl was empty.

Silas gasped. He breathed. The air was sweet. It was stale.

"What did I see?" he asked.

"You saw your end," the old man said. "You saw your guilt. You left them. You left them to die. You chose the tower. You chose the silence. You chose the self."

"I did not," Silas said.

"You did. You are the baker. You are the fire. You are the ash. You are the one who walked away."

Silas looked at his hands. They were clean. They were white. They were flour.

"I am not the fire," Silas said.

"You are. Look."

The old man pointed at the bowl. The bowl was not empty. There was a drop. It was gold. It was wet. It was alive.

Silas looked at the drop. It was small. It was perfect. It was him.

"I am the baker," Silas said.

"You are the bread," the old man said. "You are the dough. You are the shape. But you are also the oven. You are the heat that kills. You are the heat that cooks. You must choose."

Silas stood. His legs shook. He was weak. He was empty.

"I choose to stay," Silas said.

"No," the old man said. "You choose to leave. You must leave the tower. You must go down. You must go back. You must bake."

"I cannot bake," Silas said. "I am broken."

"You are whole," the old man said. "You are the dough. You are the heat. You are the bread. You must eat yourself. You must digest the past. You must become the meal."

Silas looked at the jars. They were full. They were bright. They were beautiful.

"I want them," Silas said.

"You cannot have them," the old man said. "They are you. They are your pain. They are your joy. You cannot separate the wine from the cup. You must drink. You must suffer. You must live."

Silas felt a tear. It fell. It hit the floor. It made a sound. It was tiny. It was loud.

"I am afraid," Silas said.

"Good," the old man said. "Fear is the yeast. It makes you rise. It makes you light. It makes you real."

Silas walked to the door. The door was closed. It was dark.

"I will go," Silas said.

"Yes," the old man said.

Silas opened the door. The stairs were there. The stairs were steep. The stairs were cold.

He began to descend.

The air grew thick. It grew heavy. It smelled of dust. It smelled of rot.

He walked. He walked. He walked.

The hall was dark. The torches flickered. The shadows moved. They danced. They whispered.

Silas heard voices. They were soft. They were sweet. They were his children.

"Father," they said.

"Father," they said.

He stopped. He turned. The hall was empty. There was no one.

He walked on.

The gate was there. The iron groaned. The mud was wet.

Silas stepped out. The sky was dark. The stars were out. They were bright. They were cold.

He looked at his hands. They were empty. They were clean.

He walked to the village. The road was long. The road was hard.

He saw the bakery. It was gone. There was only a hole. The hole was black. The hole was deep.

He walked to his house. It was gone. There was only ash. The ash was white. The ash was soft.

He sat. He sat on the ground. The ground was cold. The ground was hard.

He closed his eyes. He thought of the gold. He thought of the wine. He thought of the fire.

He opened his mouth. He breathed. The air was cold. The air was clean.

He picked up a handful of ash. He held it. It was light. It was fine.

He ate it.

It tasted of salt. It tasted of smoke. It tasted of time.

He stood. He walked. He walked to the forest. The trees were tall. The trees were dark.

He found a stump. He sat. He looked at the sky. The moon was full. The moon was white. The moon was cold.

He was alone. He was free. He was dead.

He was alive.

The wind blew. The leaves fell. The leaves were dry. The leaves were brown.

Silas closed his eyes. He waited. He waited for the dawn. He waited for the bread.

He did not come.