The bread was warm. It smelled of yeast and ash. I held it in my hands. My fingers were black. Not with dirt. With ink. The ink of the ledger. The ink of the debt.

I am a baker. I am a prisoner. The cell is the kitchen. The bars are the ovens. They are hot. They do not sleep. They do not forgive. I have been here for three years. Or ten. Time does not move here. It sits. It waits. It eats.

My name is Thomas. But the Master calls me "The Hands." He does not look at my face. He looks at the dough. He looks at the gold crust. He looks at the perfection. I am not a man. I am a tool. A tool that bleeds. A tool that remembers.

The bread is the law. The bread is the god. Every loaf is a prayer. Every loaf is a sin. I knead the pain out. I knead the fear in. The dough resists. It is alive. It knows I am lying. It knows I am broken.

I remember her. Elise. Her hair was the color of wheat. Her eyes were the color of the sky before the storm. She did not eat much. She lived on the air. She lived on my touch. She said my hands were warm. She said they felt like the sun on a winter day. I gave her my life. I gave it in slices. In crumbs. In the quiet hours before dawn.

Now I give it to the Master. He takes it. He pays in silence. He pays in hunger. He pays in the cold stone of the floor. I lie there. I stare at the ceiling. I see the cracks. They look like veins. They look like rivers. I try to map them. I try to find a way out. There is no way out. There is only the next loaf. The next knead. The next burn.

The Master is old. His skin is like parchment. His voice is like dry leaves. He is dying. I can smell it. It smells of rot. It smells of end. He knows it. He is afraid. He holds his power like a knife. He cuts at the air. He cuts at me.

"You are late," he says.

I am never late. Time is a circle. I am always on time.

"The bread is dry," he says.

It is not dry. It is perfect. It is exactly what he wants. It is exactly what I am.

He slaps my hand. It stings. It burns. I do not cry. I do not flinch. I am stone. I am dough. I am waiting.

The years pass. Or they do not. I lose count. The seasons change outside. I do not go out. I do not need to. The world is a myth. A story they tell the new bakers. The world is a place where the sun rises. A place where the rain falls. A place where Elise is alive.

I close my eyes. I see her. She is there. In the kitchen. She is standing by the window. The light is gold. She turns. She smiles. Her smile is a door. It opens. It closes. It opens.

I open my eyes. The light is gray. The window is high. The bars are thick. She is gone. She has been gone for years. Or decades. I do not know. I have forgotten her face. I only remember the feeling. The warmth. The peace.

The Master is dying. He coughs. The sound is wet. It is heavy. It lands in the air. It settles on the dough. The dough turns black. It rots. It dies.

I look at him. I do not hate him. Hate is too big. Hate is too hot. I feel nothing. I feel empty. I feel light. I feel like the air.

He dies. On a Tuesday. In the morning. He dies while I am baking. He dies holding a piece of bread. He dies looking at me. His eyes are open. They are wide. They are full of fear. He sees something. He sees the end. He sees the truth.

I do not stop. I bake. I shape. I bake. I shape. The bread is warm. The bread is alive. The bread is free.

The men come. They are dressed in black. They carry a cloth. They carry a box. They take him. They do not speak. They do not look. They are ghosts. They move through the air. They do not touch the floor.

The kitchen is quiet. The ovens are cold. The dough is dead. I sit. I wait. I do not know what to do. I do not know who I am. I am not Thomas. I am not The Hands. I am nothing. I am a hole in the world.

Then I feel it. A shift. A change. The air is different. It is thinner. It is sharper. It is clean. The weight is gone. The chains are gone. The bars are gone.

I stand up. My legs are stiff. My back is bent. I am old. I am so old. My hands are twisted. My fingers are crooked. They are no longer the hands that made the perfect loaf. They are the hands of a man. A broken man. A free man.

I walk to the door. The door is open. It has been open all along. I did not see it. I was blind. I was deaf. I was dumb. I was a prisoner in my own head. I was a slave to the bread. I was a slave to the Master. I was a slave to the memory of Elise.

I step out. The air hits my face. It is cold. It is wet. It smells of rain. It smells of earth. It smells of life. I breathe. I breathe deep. I breathe in. I breathe out.

I walk. I do not know where. I do not have a map. I do not have a name. I do not have a past. I have only the now. I have only the feet. I have only the step.

I walk for miles. The sun is setting. The sky is purple. The sky is red. The sky is gold. It is the color of Elise’s hair. I stop. I look. I see the fields. The wheat is tall. The wheat is waving. It is dancing. It is alive.

I touch the wheat. It is soft. It is dry. It is warm. It is the same as the bread. It is the same as the dough. It is the same as her.

I sit in the field. I watch the stars come out. They are bright. They are far. They are cold. They do not care. They do not judge. They do not punish. They just are.

I think of justice. I think of the Master. I think of the debt. I think of the sin. I thought justice was a knife. I thought justice was a fire. I thought justice was a punishment. I was wrong. Justice is a release. Justice is a letting go. Justice is a breath.

I do not want to be avenged. I do not want to be rewarded. I do not want to be remembered. I want to be forgotten. I want to be dust. I want to be wind. I want to be air.

I close my eyes. I feel the earth beneath me. It is solid. It is real. It is mine. I am not a prisoner. I am not a baker. I am not a sinner. I am a man. I am here. I am now.

The night is cold. I shiver. I am alone. I am afraid. But I am free. The freedom is heavy. It is like a stone in my chest. It is like a weight on my soul. It is like a wound that will not heal. But it is mine. It is my burden. It is my gift.

I open my eyes. The moon is full. It is white. It is pale. It is like the bread. It is like the ash. It is like the truth.

I stand up. I walk. I walk into the dark. I walk into the night. I walk into the unknown. I do not look back. I do not look forward. I only look at the ground. I only see the step. I only take the step.

The story ends. The bread is gone. The Master is gone. Elise is gone. I am gone. I am here. I am nowhere. I am everywhere.

The wind blows. The wheat waves. The stars shine. The earth turns. The time passes. The time does not stop. The time does not wait. The time eats. The time consumes. The time is the only god. The time is the only master. The time is the only judge.

I am free. I am bound. I am free. I am bound. I am free.

I breathe.

I am here.