The bread was white.

It sat on the counter.

It was whole.

I cut it.

The knife slipped.

The loaf split.

Not in half.

In three.

Uneven pieces.

Crumbly.

Dry.

I looked at the pieces.

They were not food.

They were evidence.

My hands shook.

I put them back.

The shop was quiet.

Dust motes danced in the light.

From the window.

The light was thin.

Pale.

Like the skin of a dead man.

I am a baker.

I have been a baker for forty years.

My name is Elias.

I live above the shop.

I sleep above the flour.

I dream of yeast.

I wake with the smell of burnt sugar.

This is my life.

Small.

Tight.

Closed.

The walls are thick.

Stone.

Old.

The city is outside.

But it does not come in.

Not really.

Only the sound.

Distant.

A car horn.

A siren.

Faint.

Like a ghost.

I made the mistake.

I trust no one.

But I trusted him.

His name is Arthur.

He was my assistant.

For ten years.

He had my trust.

He had my keys.

He had my recipes.

He had my silence.

I believed him.

I was wrong.

He was the system.

He was the law.

He was the hunger.

He took from me.

Slowly.

Piece by piece.

Like the bread.

I did not see it.

I was blind.

I was proud.

I was poor.

Poverty is a fog.

It blinds the eyes.

It dulls the mind.

It makes you accept.

You accept the theft.

You accept the lie.

You accept the silence.

Arthur was clever.

He smiled.

He nodded.

He paid the bills.

I thought he was family.

He was not.

He was a thief.

A gentle thief.

A quiet thief.

He took my livelihood.

He took my name.

He took my pride.

He did it legally.

He did it properly.

He used the books.

He used the forms.

He used the words.

I did not understand the words.

I understood only the flour.

I understood only the heat.

I understood only the rise.

But the system does not rise.

The system falls.

It falls on you.

Crushing.

Heavy.

Stone.

The day I knew.

The day it broke.

I found the ledger.

In the back.

In the box.

The box was locked.

The key was missing.

Or so I thought.

I broke the lock.

The paper was yellow.

The ink was black.

The numbers were red.

Red like blood.

Red like rust.

Red like shame.

I read them.

I read them again.

The truth was there.

Plain.

Cold.

Arthur had been stealing.

For years.

Small amounts.

Pennies.

Dimes.

Then dollars.

Then more.

He had siphoned the profits.

He had buried the debts.

He had lied to the bank.

He had lied to me.

He had lied to the world.

I sat on the floor.

The floor was cold.

Stone.

Like the walls.

I felt the cold.

It entered me.

It settled in my bones.

It froze my blood.

I did not cry.

I did not shout.

I sat.

I watched the dust.

The dust settled.

The light faded.

The day died.

The shop was dark.

I was alone.

I was the master.

But I was not.

I was the servant.

I was the tool.

I was the meat.

To be cut.

To be sold.

To be eaten.

I looked at the loaf.

The white loaf.

It was still there.

On the counter.

Whole.

I picked it up.

It was heavy.

Dense.

Dead.

I did not cut it.

I held it.

I felt the weight.

I felt the lie.

I felt the betrayal.

I felt the end.

I put it down.

I walked to the door.

The back door.

To the alley.

The alley was dark.

Wet.

Smelling of rot.

I opened the door.

The air was cold.

Sharp.

It cut my face.

I stepped out.

I did not look back.

I walked.

I walked into the night.

The night was vast.

Empty.

I was small.

I was dust.

I was gone.

The shop remained.

The light remained.

The lie remained.

I left it all.

The bread.

The oven.

The name.

The life.

I left it all.

I did not take a cent.

I did not take a crumb.

I took only my breath.

My breath was mine.

My feet were mine.

My body was mine.

But my soul?

My soul was gone.

Sold.

Stolen.

Eaten.

By the system.

By the man.

By the hunger.

I walked on.

The city was loud.

The city was cruel.

The city was indifferent.

It did not care.

It never did.

It only consumed.

I was food.

I was fuel.

I was waste.

I walked until I could not walk.

My legs gave way.

I sat on the curb.

The curb was wet.

The rain began.

Soft.

Cold.

It washed the street.

It washed the grime.

It washed the blood.

It washed me.

I closed my eyes.

I saw the bread.

White.

Whole.

Broken.

I saw Arthur.

Smiling.

Nodding.

Lying.

I saw the ledger.

Red.

Black.

Yellow.

I saw the end.

The beginning.

The middle.

It was all the same.

A loop.

A circle.

A trap.

I opened my eyes.

The rain was heavier.

It stung.

It hurt.

Good.

Pain is real.

Pain is true.

Lie is smooth.

Lie is soft.

Lie is warm.

Pain is cold.

Pain is sharp.

Pain is clean.

I stood up.

My legs were weak.

But they held.

I looked at the shop.

The light was off.

The window was dark.

The mirror.

My reflection was gone.

I was gone.

I turned away.

I walked.

I walked into the dark.

I walked into the rain.

I walked into the nothing.

The nothing was vast.

The nothing was free.

The nothing was mine.

I did not fight.

I did not resist.

I accepted.

I was defeated.

I was broken.

I was empty.

I was light.

The bread was white.

It sat on the counter.

It was whole.

It was gone.

I am Elias.

I was a baker.

I am no one.

I am the wind.

I am the rain.

I am the dust.

I am the silence.

The silence is loud.

The silence is true.

The silence is free.

I walked.

The city passed.

The night passed.

The dawn came.

Gray.

Pale.

Like the bread.

Like the skin.

Like the lie.

I did not see the sun.

I did not see the sky.

I saw only the road.

The road was long.

The road was dark.

The road was mine.

I walked on.

I walked on.

I walked on.

The bread was white.

It was broken.

It was gone.

I am gone.

The system wins.

The system eats.

The system digests.

The system forgets.

I remember.

I remember the taste.

The flour.

The yeast.

The heat.

The life.

It is gone.

It is over.

It is done.

The end is quiet.

The end is still.

The end is cold.

The end is true.

I walk.

I am alone.

I am free.

I am dead.

The bread was white.

It was whole.

It was broken.

It was gone.

I am gone.

The light is out.

The door is shut.

The key is lost.

The lock is broken.

The trust is broken.

The heart is broken.

The body is tired.

The soul is empty.

The world is cold.

The rain is cold.

The night is cold.

I am cold.

I am warm.

I am alive.

I am nothing.

I am everything.

I am the path.

The pale path.

The white path.

The empty path.

I walk.

I walk.

I walk.

The end.