The bread was gone.

I checked the tin again. It was empty.

The iron lid sat on the floor.

I am a scholar of old things.

I read the runes.

I know the weight of words.

But I do not know how to make flour rise.

My name is Elias.

I live in the stone hall.

The hall belongs to the Guild.

The Guild is old.

The Guild is cold.

I am poor.

Poverty is a quiet guest.

It sits in the corner.

It watches you eat.

It waits for you to stop.

I had bought a loaf.

A whole loaf.

It was brown.

It smelled of earth.

It was my meal for three days.

Now it was dust.

I looked at the crumbs.

They were on the stone.

I picked them up.

They were dry.

They tasted of nothing.

I am hungry.

Hunger is a voice.

It speaks in my bones.

It says you are small.

It says you are less.

I went to the kitchen.

The kitchen was dark.

The fire was low.

It coughed smoke.

I sat on the bench.

I waited.

A shadow moved.

It was not a person.

It was a shape.

It had no face.

It had hands.

Long hands.

The hands were made of smoke.

They reached for the tin.

I did not move.

I am a scholar.

I study the unseen.

I know this spirit.

It is called the Gleaner.

It takes from the weak.

It feeds on the lost.

I watched the hands open the tin.

The tin was empty.

The hands closed.

The smoke dissipated.

I was alone.

I felt a chill.

It was not fear.

It was shame.

I had failed.

I had let the bread go.

I had not guarded it.

I am an adult.

I am a man.

I should have been stronger.

I thought of my mother.

She lived in the village below.

She baked the bread.

Her hands were rough.

Her eyes were kind.

She would give me the last crust.

She would never let me go hungry.

She is dead now.

The earth has her.

I am alone.

I stood up.

My legs shook.

I walked to the door.

The door was heavy.

It was oak.

It was old.

I pushed it.

It did not move.

I pushed harder.

My breath came in short gasps.

The door opened.

The wind rushed in.

It was cold.

It smelled of rain.

I stepped out.

The night was dark.

The stars were out.

They were cold lights.

I walked down the hill.

The path was slippery.

I fell.

My knee hit the stone.

It bled.

I did not cry.

I kept walking.

I reached the village.

The houses were dark.

The windows were black.

I walked to my mother’s house.

The door was ajar.

I pushed it open.

The room was empty.

The table was bare.

The chair was overturned.

I looked for her.

I found nothing.

I found only dust.

I sat on the floor.

I put my head in my hands.

I wept.

The tears were hot.

They burned my face.

I was a child again.

I was small.

I was afraid.

A voice spoke.

It was soft.

It was kind.

It said Elias.

I looked up.

There was no one.

The voice came from the air.

It said you are not alone.

I shook my head.

I said I am alone.

The voice said no.

It said the bread is here.

I looked at the table.

There was a loaf.

It was brown.

It was whole.

It was not there before.

I stared at it.

My heart beat fast.

I reached out.

My hand hovered.

I was afraid to touch it.

I thought it was a trick.

I thought it was the Gleaner.

I pulled my hand back.

I said no.

I said I do not want it.

The voice said why.

I said I do not deserve it.

The voice said you are my son.

I said I have no father.

The voice said I am the memory.

I am the love.

It is still here.

I looked at the bread.

I looked at the dust.

I saw the difference.

The dust was gone.

The bread was real.

I picked it up.

It was warm.

It smelled of earth.

I broke a piece.

I put it in my mouth.

It tasted of hope.

It tasted of life.

I ate.

I ate slowly.

I chewed.

I swallowed.

The hunger left.

The shame left.

I stood up.

I walked to the door.

The door was open.

The night was quiet.

I walked back up the hill.

The path was still slippery.

I did not fall.

I reached the stone hall.

I went to the kitchen.

The fire was out.

I lit it.

I sat on the bench.

I held the rest of the bread.

I thought about the Gleaner.

I thought about the smoke.

I thought about the hands.

I understood.

The Gleaner was not a monster.

It was a fear.

It was my fear of losing.

It was my fear of being unworthy.

I had believed the lie.

I had believed I was alone.

I had believed I was less.

I was wrong.

The love was there.

It was in the bread.

It was in the memory.

It was in the blood.

I am a scholar.

I study the old things.

I know now.

The old things are not dead.

They are waiting.

They are waiting for us to remember.

I held the bread.

I felt the warmth.

I felt the strength.

I was not defeated.

I was changed.

I looked at the tin.

It was empty.

I did not care.

I had the bread.

I had the love.

I was full.

I slept.

I dreamed of my mother.

She was smiling.

She held the loaf.

She gave it to me.

She said eat.

I ate.

I woke up.

The sun was up.

The light was gold.

It shone on the stone.

I looked at my hands.

They were steady.

I went to my study.

I opened my book.

I read the runes.

The words were clear.

The meaning was deep.

I wrote in my journal.

I wrote about the night.

I wrote about the bread.

I wrote about the voice.

I wrote about the truth.

I closed the book.

I walked to the window.

The village was below.

The houses were waking up.

Smoke rose from the chimneys.

People were moving.

Life was going on.

I was part of it.

I was not apart.

I was connected.

I was loved.

I was whole.

I took a deep breath.

The air was fresh.

It was clean.

I was ready.

I was ready to face the day.

I was ready to face the world.

I was ready to be myself.

I was Elias.

I was the scholar.

I was the son.

I was the man.

I was enough.

I turned from the window.

I walked to the door.

I opened it.

I stepped out.

I walked into the light.

The day was long.

The day was bright.

I was alive.

I was here.

I was home.

The bread was gone.

But the taste remained.

The warmth remained.

The love remained.

I carried it with me.

I carried it in my heart.

I carried it in my soul.

I was never empty.

I was never alone.

I was never less.

I was full.

I was whole.

I was free.