You wake with flour in your hair.

It is grey.

It is thick.

You taste it.

Chalk.

Dust.

You are in the cellar.

The air is cold.

It bites your lungs.

You are Thomas.

You are a baker.

You are poor.

The city is above you.

It is a beast.

It breathes stone and smoke.

It does not care for you.

You stand.

Your knees crack.

You look at the sacks.

They are empty.

The grain is gone.

The debt remains.

The landlord’s shadow is on the wall.

It is long.

It is black.

You remember the dream.

You saw the bread.

It was not bread.

It was light.

It was gold.

It was pure.

You thought you could make it.

You thought you could sell it.

You thought you could save her.

Elise.

Your sister.

She is in the room above.

She is sick.

Her chest heaves.

A rattle in her throat.

Like stones in a jar.

You need money.

You need grain.

You have nothing.

The city takes.

The city always takes.

You go up.

The stairs are steep.

They wear your boots thin.

You reach the door.

You knock.

No answer.

You push.

It opens.

Elise is there.

She is small.

She is white.

Her eyes are closed.

Her lips are dry.

You kneel.

You touch her face.

It is warm.

Too warm.

Fever.

The fire in the grate is low.

You look at the table.

There is a bowl.

It is empty.

There was soup.

It is gone.

Who ate it?

You did not.

Elise did not.

The rat.

The rat took it.

Or the cold.

Or the debt.

You stand.

You are angry.

Anger is fuel.

You go to the market.

The streets are wet.

Mud sticks to your feet.

People walk past.

They look at you.

They see a rag.

They see a ghost.

They do not see Thomas.

They do not see the brother.

They see the poor.

The poor are invisible.

Unless they beg.

You do not beg.

You work.

You work until your hands bleed.

You work until your back breaks.

You work for the master.

Master Aldous.

He is fat.

He is red.

He sits in his shop.

He counts his coins.

He does not look up.

You bring him the dough.

It is heavy.

It is grey.

He looks at it.

He looks at you.

His eyes are cold.

"Too dry," he says.

"Too pale."

"You are a fool, Thomas."

"I am a fool," you say.

"Yes," he says.

"You are a fool."

He throws the dough at you.

It hits your chest.

It sticks.

He points to the door.

"Out."

You leave.

You do not wipe the dough from your face.

You walk.

The city is loud.

Horns.

Horses.

Carts.

It is a symphony of noise.

It drowns your thoughts.

You go to the alley.

You sit on a crate.

You look at your hands.

They are cracked.

They are white.

You close them.

You open them.

You remember the dream.

The gold bread.

It was not gold.

It was life.

It was strength.

You could not make it.

You were too weak.

You were too hungry.

You need help.

You need a friend.

You think of Silas.

Silas is a thief.

He is old.

He is kind.

He lives in the ruins.

He shares his bread with you.

You go to the ruins.

The stones are old.

They are mossy.

You call out.

"Silas."

No answer.

You call again.

"Silas."

A shadow moves.

Silas comes out.

He is thin.

His face is lined.

He looks at you.

He sees the dough on your face.

He laughs.

It is a dry laugh.

Like leaves in the wind.

"Thomas," he says.

"Silas," you say.

"You look like a ghost," he says.

"I feel like one," you say.

He sits down.

He offers you a piece of bread.

It is black.

It is hard.

You take it.

You chew.

It tastes of ash.

"It is good," you lie.

"Is it?" he asks.

"Yes," you say.

He looks at you.

He knows you lie.

"You are in trouble," he says.

"Yes," you say.

"Elise?" he asks.

"Yes," you say.

"Sick?" he asks.

"Yes," you say.

He is silent.

The wind blows.

It whistles through the cracks in the stones.

"I have an idea," he says.

"What?" you ask.

"There is a festival," he says.

"The Saint’s Day."

"Tomorrow," he says.

"Rich men come," he says.

"They buy rare things."

"What things?" you ask.

"Magic," he says.

"Superstition."

"Fools," he says.

"But they pay."

You look at him.

"You want me to sell magic?" you ask.

"I want you to sell hope," he says.

"Hope is expensive."

You laugh.

It hurts your ribs.

"I have no magic," you say.

"You have flour," he says.

"You have hands."

"You have a story."

"What story?" you ask.

"The dream," he says.

"The gold bread."

You shake your head.

"It was a dream," you say.

"Dreams are real," he says.

"To the rich."

"To the poor, dreams are hunger."

He stands up.

He looks at the sky.

It is dark.

Stars are coming out.

"Go home," he says.

"Bake the bread."

"Bake it white."

"Bake it soft."

"Call it the Saint’s Bread."

"They will buy it."

"Why?" you ask.

"Because they are afraid," he says.

"They are always afraid."

Afraid of death.

Afraid of the dark.

Afraid of you.

You go home.

The city is sleeping.

The windows are dark.

Only the street lamps burn.

They are yellow.

They are weak.

You enter the cellar.

You light the oven.

The fire is hungry.

You feed it.

Wood.

Coal.

Smoke.

You mix the flour.

Water.

Salt.

No yeast.

You have no yeast.

You use your hands.

You knead.

You push.

You pull.

The dough is resistant.

It fights you.

You fight it.

You are stronger.

You are tired.

But you are stronger.

You shape it.

Round.

Smooth.

You put it in the oven.

You close the door.

You wait.

The heat is intense.

It burns your face.

You sweat.

Your heart beats.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

It is a drum.

It is a war.

You are at war with the dough.

You are at war with the cold.

You are at war with the city.

You are at war with death.

The bell rings.

It is one o’clock.

The bread is done.

You open the oven.

The light comes out.

It is not gold.

It is brown.

It is dark.

It is burnt.

You take it out.

It is hot.

It is heavy.

You look at it.

It is a failure.

It is a black lump.

It is not magic.

It is not hope.

It is burnt flour.

You cry.

Tears fall on the dough.

It hisses.

It steams.

You sit on the floor.

You hold the bread.

It burns your palms.

You do not let go.

You must let go.

You must save her.

You stand.

You carry the bread.

You go up.

Elise is awake.

She looks at you.

She sees the black bread.

She smiles.

It is a weak smile.

"Thomas," she says.

"Elise," you say.

"It is burnt," she says.

"Yes," you say.

"Is it magic?" she asks.

"No," you say.

"It is just bread."

"Is it good?" she asks.

"Yes," you say.

You break it.

The crust is hard.

The inside is soft.

It is white.

It is soft.

The inside is good.

You give it to her.

She eats.

She chews.

She swallows.

She closes her eyes.

Her face relaxes.

The rattle in her throat stops.

For a moment.

It is silence.

It is peace.

You watch her.

You are afraid.

You are waiting for the rattle to return.

It does not.

She sleeps.

It is a deep sleep.

It is a real sleep.

You sit by the bed.

You hold her hand.

It is cold.

But it is steady.

You think of Silas.

He was right.

Hope is expensive.

But it is free.

If you pay with pain.

You pay with pride.

You pay with truth.

The bread was not magic.

It was sacrifice.

You gave up your pride.

You gave up your perfection.

You gave up your fear of failure.

You gave up everything.

Except love.

Love is not enough.

But it is all you have.

The sun rises.

Light comes through the window.

It is pale.

It is grey.

It is the color of flour.

It is the color of the city.

It is the color of life.

You stand.

You wash your face.

You put on your coat.

You go to the market.

The streets are busy.

People are talking.

They are laughing.

They are buying.

They are selling.

The world is moving.

You are moving.

You are not a ghost.

You are not a fool.

You are a baker.

You are a brother.

You are alive.

You go to the alley.

Silas is there.

He is waiting.

He looks at you.

He sees your face.

He sees your eyes.

They are clear.

He smiles.

"Did you bake it?" he asks.

"Yes," you say.

"Was it gold?" he asks.

"No," you say.

"Was it magic?" he asks.

"No," you say.

"Was it enough?" he asks.

"Yes," you say.

He nods.

He stands up.

He offers his hand.

You take it.

It is rough.

It is warm.

You shake it.

You let go.

You walk away.

You walk into the city.

The city is loud.

It is bright.

It is hard.

It is beautiful.

You are part of it.

You are small.

But you are here.

You are alive.

You carry the memory of the bread.

It is black.

It is soft.

It is yours.

It is hers.

It is enough.

The sun is higher.

The shadows are shorter.

You walk faster.

Your heart beats.

It is a drum.

It is a song.

It is a life.

You are Thomas.

You are a baker.

You are free.