The bread was stale. It sat on the counter, a block of dry, pale sorrow, waiting to be broken.

Miles stood before it. His hands trembled. He was a small man, thin as a reed, with eyes that had seen too much and remembered too little. The room was cold. The walls were white. The air was still.

He had come here to find his sister. He had come here to bring her food. He had come here because the letter said she was sick. The letter said she was waiting. The letter was signed by a hand he knew. It was a hand that should not have written such words.

He knocked. No one answered.

He turned the handle. The door opened. The room was empty. The table was set for two. Two plates. Two forks. Two glasses. The bread was on the table.

Miles sat down. He cut a slice. It crumbled. The crumbs fell like snow on the white tablecloth. He ate. It tasted of dust. It tasted of nothing.

He waited.

The clock on the wall ticked. It was a loud sound. It filled the room. Tick. Tick. Tick.

He looked at the door. He did not lock it. He had no key. He had never had a key.

He thought of his father. His father had been a baker. He had hands like dough. They were soft and strong. His father had taught him how to knead. How to feel the life in the yeast. How to know when it was ready.

Miles could not feel the life. He could only feel the weight.

A shadow moved in the corner.

Miles froze. He held the bread in his hand. The shadow stretched. It grew. It reached for him.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the shadow was gone.

But the air was heavier.

He heard a sound. A scrape. A drag. It came from the hallway.

He stood up. His legs were weak. He walked to the door. He looked out. The hallway was long. It was dark. The light from the room made a square on the floor.

A figure walked toward him.

It was a man. He wore a coat. The coat was gray. The man’s face was hidden by a hood.

Miles stepped back.

The man stopped.

They looked at each other.

The man took a step forward.

Miles held the bread out. It was an offering. It was a plea.

The man did not take it.

The man raised his hand.

Miles saw the glint of steel.

He closed his eyes again.

The pain was sudden. It was sharp. It was cold.

He fell.

The bread fell with him.

It rolled across the floor. It stopped against the leg of the chair.

Miles lay on the ground. He could not move. He could not breathe.

He looked up. The man was gone.

The door was open. The wind blew in. The light flickered.

Miles thought of his sister. He thought of the letter. He thought of the lie.

He had trusted the letter. He had trusted the name. He had trusted the love.

He was wrong.

He had always been wrong.

He had left his home to find her. He had left his life to save her. He had crossed the border. He had crossed the line.

He was an exile. He was a ghost.

He was alone.

The pain faded. It became a hum. A low, steady note.

He looked at the bread. It was broken. It was ruined.

He reached for it. His hand was slow. His fingers were stiff.

He touched the crust. It was hard.

He brought it to his lips.

He did not eat it. He only held it.

He remembered the taste of fresh bread. He remembered the warmth of the oven. He remembered his sister’s laughter. She had been young. She had been bright. She had been real.

Now she was a name on a page. Now she was a ghost in a wall.

The room was quiet.

The clock stopped ticking.

Miles let the bread fall.

It hit the floor. It made a soft sound.

He closed his eyes.

The dark came.

It was not black. It was white.

It was the white of the walls. It was the white of the bread. It was the white of the lie.

He floated in it.

He was weightless.

He was free.

The door creaked.

A voice spoke.

It was soft. It was kind.

"Brother?"

Miles opened his eyes.

The room was the same. The table was set. The bread was on the floor.

But the man was there.

He was not wearing a hood. He was not holding a knife.

He was wearing a white coat. He had a face that Miles knew. It was his own face.

It was old. It was tired. It was sad.

The man looked at Miles.

"Let it go," he said.

Miles tried to speak. His mouth was dry. His throat was tight.

He could not speak.

The man walked to him. He knelt down. He picked up the piece of bread.

He held it in his palm.

"It is not real," the man said. "The bread is not real. The letter is not real. The sister is not real."

Miles shook his head.

No.

He knew it was real. He knew it was true.

The man smiled. It was a sad smile.

"You are the one who is lost," the man said. "You are the one who is broken."

Miles looked at his hands. They were shaking. They were pale.

He looked at the bread in the man’s hand.

It was crumbling. It was turning to dust.

The dust rose. It floated in the air. It caught the light.

It was beautiful.

It was terrible.

Miles felt a tear roll down his cheek.

He did not know why.

He did not know what was true.

He did not know who he was.

He only knew that he was tired.

He was so tired.

He reached out. He took the dust from the man’s hand.

He put it in his mouth.

It tasted of ash. It tasted of silence.

It tasted of end.

The room faded.

The white grew brighter.

The pain was gone.

The fear was gone.

The love was gone.

There was only the stillness.

There was only the quiet.

There was only the bread.

It was broken.

It was gone.

Miles was gone.

The room remained.

The clock began to tick again.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The door was open.

The wind blew in.

The dust settled.

On the table, the two plates waited.

The forks were silver. The glasses were clear.

The bread was gone.

Only the crumbs remained.

They were pale.

They were dry.

They were waiting.

For no one.

For nothing.

For the end.