The bread was cold.

It sat on the stone table. A slab of grey granite. It had rained. The mud clung to the boots of the travelers. They were many. They walked in a line. The line stretched out. It disappeared into the fog.

Thomas held the basket. His hands shook. The crust was hard. It felt like bone. He looked at the loaf. He did not look at the men.

"Share it," said the guard.

The guard stood behind Thomas. He held a staff. The wood was wet. It smelled of iron. The guard did not blink. He watched the loaf. He watched Thomas.

Thomas broke the bread.

The tear was clean. It snapped. A white interior showed. Soft. Wet. Alive. Thomas looked at his hands. The flour dusted his fingers. White powder. Like ash. Like snow. He looked at the man behind him. The man was old. His face was a map of wrinkles. His eyes were closed. He breathed slow.

Thomas held out a piece. The old man did not move. He did not open his eyes. He did not reach. Thomas waited. The fog thickened. It swallowed the path ahead. It swallowed the path behind.

"Eat," Thomas said.

His voice was thin. It broke in the air. The wind took it. The wind was cold. It cut through the wool. It cut through the skin. The old man opened his mouth. He took the bread. He chewed. He did not swallow. He held it in his cheeks. His jaw worked. Up. Down. Up. Down.

Thomas felt a pull. It was in his chest. A hook. It pulled hard. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He did not. He broke the loaf again. The second piece. He held it out to the next man. A young boy. The boy had no teeth. His gums were red. Swollen. The boy stared at Thomas. His eyes were wide. Black. Empty.

The guard stepped forward.

"Stop," he said.

The word was sharp. It cut the air. Thomas froze. The piece of bread hung in his hand. He looked at the guard. The guard’s face was blank. It was a mask. Stone. Cold.

"Who are you?" the guard asked.

Thomas did not answer. He could not. The words stuck in his throat. He looked at the old man. The old man was swallowing now. The bread was gone. Only crumbs remained. The old man looked at Thomas. He smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a secret.

The guard raised his staff.

"Give it back," the guard said.

Thomas clutched the basket. He pulled it close. It was empty. Only crumbs. He had given it all. He had given it all. He looked at the guard. He saw the fear in the guard’s eyes. It was small. A flicker. Like a candle in a storm.

The guard swung.

The staff hit the table. Stone cracked. Dust rose. The basket fell. It rolled. It tumbled into the mud. Thomas watched it go. He did not move. He did not breathe. The guard lowered his staff. He looked at Thomas. He saw the emptiness. He saw the peace.

"Walk," the guard said.

The line moved. Thomas walked. He walked fast. He ran. He ran until his lungs burned. He ran until his legs failed. He fell. He lay in the mud. The mud was cold. It was black. It covered his face. He closed his eyes.

He saw the bread.

It was whole. It was warm. It glowed. It was a sun. It was a heart. It beat. Thump. Thump. Thump. He reached for it. His hand passed through. It was light. It was air. It was memory.

He opened his eyes.

The fog was gone. The sun was out. It was high. It was bright. It burned. He stood up. He was not alone. The others were there. The old man. The boy. They stood in a circle. They held hands. They sang.

The song was low. A hum. It vibrated in the ground. It vibrated in the bones. Thomas joined them. He sang. His voice was small. It joined the chorus. It became part of the whole.

The guard was gone. The staff was gone. The table was gone. There was only the field. The grass was green. It grew tall. It waved. It danced.

Thomas looked at his hands. They were clean. They were white. They were bread.

He felt the hunger. It was gone. It was replaced by a fullness. A heavy fullness. It pressed against his ribs. It pressed against his skull. It was too much. It was too good. He wanted to break. He wanted to scatter. He wanted to be dust.

The old man looked at him. The old man nodded.

The boy looked at him. The boy nodded.

Thomas nodded back.

He took a step forward. He stepped into the grass. The grass swallowed his feet. It swallowed his legs. It rose. It rose to his waist. It rose to his chest. He did not struggle. He let it take him. He let it rise.

He felt the warmth. It was the warmth of the oven. It was the warmth of the hearth. It was the warmth of the sun. It was the warmth of the people. It was the warmth of the end.

He closed his eyes.

The bread was whole.

***

The road was long. It was straight. It led to the city. The city was a beast. It ate the travelers. It ate their names. It ate their memories. It left only the husks.

Thomas walked. He was one of the husks. He had no name. He had no face. He was a shadow. He moved with the others. They did not speak. They did not look at each other. They looked at the ground. They looked at the stones.

The stones were cold. They were hard. They were indifferent.

Thomas felt a pain. It was in his stomach. A knot. A stone. It did not go away. It grew. It tightened. It squeezed.

He remembered the bread.

He remembered the taste. It was sweet. It was rich. It was life. He remembered the feel. It was soft. It was warm. It was alive.

He remembered the guard. He remembered the staff. He remembered the fear.

He remembered the song.

He stopped walking.

The others kept walking. They passed him. They did not see him. They did not hear him. He was invisible. He was a ghost.

He sat down.

He put his hands in his lap. He closed his eyes. He waited.

The sun set. The sky turned red. Then orange. Then purple. Then black. The stars came out. They were bright. They were cold. They watched.

Thomas looked up.

He saw the moon. It was full. It was white. It was a loaf of bread.

He smiled.

The pain in his stomach grew. It was a fire. It burned. It consumed. He felt his body break. It was a fracture. It was a crack. It was a shattering.

He did not cry out. He did not scream. He laughed.

It was a small laugh. It was a soft laugh. It was a breath.

The moon looked down. It saw the crack. It saw the light. It saw the freedom.

The light came out. It was white. It was bright. It was pure. It filled the dark. It filled the road. It filled the city. It filled the world.

Thomas was gone.

Only the light remained.

It did not fade. It did not die. It spread. It grew. It became the sun. It became the fire. It became the life.

It was the price. It was the cost. It was the truth.

The bread was whole.

The bread was gone.

The bread was everywhere.