The letter is written in a hand that trembles. Not with age. With cold.

You are holding it. You know this. The paper is thick. It smells of damp wool and iron.

Read.

I have been waiting for you to find this. I knew you would. The cycle turns. It always turns.

You are in the mill. The air is thick. It tastes of coal dust. It coats the back of your throat. You are seven years old. Or perhaps eight. Time blurs here. The clock on the wall has no hands. It only ticks. A heavy, wooden beat. Like a heart stopping.

Your name is Elias. You know this. But the name feels loose. It does not fit your skin. You look in the mirror by the door. The face is yours. But the eyes are wrong. They are too old. They have seen too much. They look at you with pity.

This is the first sign. The mirror shows not your face, but your future. Or your past. It does not matter. It is the same thing.

You seek the bread.

This is strange. Why bread? You are not hungry. Your stomach is empty, yes. But the hunger is not physical. It is a hollow in your chest. A shape waiting to be filled.

You walk through the corridors. The floorboards groan. The walls are damp. Water drips from the ceiling. Plip. Plap. Plip.

You pass the workers. They do not look at you. They are shadows. Their movements are jerky. Mechanical. They eat their meals in silence. A loaf of dark, dense bread. They tear it with their hands. They chew. They swallow. They return to the machines.

You watch them. You feel a pull. A magnetic force. You must have the bread. You must know what it is.

You find the baker’s room. The door is ajar. Warmth spills out. It is the only warmth in the mill. It smells of yeast. Of sugar. Of life.

You enter.

The baker is there. He is a large man. His hands are white with flour. He looks at you. He does not smile. He does not scold. He simply waits.

"Give me the bread," you say. Your voice is small. It cracks.

He shakes his head. "Not yet."

"Please."

"No."

You are angry. You are afraid. You reach for the loaf on the counter. It is golden. It is perfect. It glows in the dim light.

He slaps your hand away.

"Look at me," he says.

You look.

He points to the mirror behind him.

You see yourself. But the reflection is different. You are older. You are in a different room. You are holding a letter. You are crying.

Your heart stops.

"What is that?" you whisper.

"That is the end," the baker says. "And the beginning. It is the same."

"I don't understand."

"You will. When you eat."

"I won't eat."

"You will. They all do. It is the protocol."

The word hangs in the air. Pale. Cold.

"Protocol?" you ask.

He moves to the oven. He pulls out a tray. It is not bread. It is ash.

"Look," he says. "Look closely."

You lean in.

The ash is swirling. It forms a shape. A face. It is your face. But it is dissolving. It is turning to dust.

"This is what you are," the baker says. "Not the boy. The boy is the shell. The bread is the seed. You eat the seed. You become the ash. You are the ash."

I pull the paper from my hands.

I am in the mill.

The air is thick.

I taste coal.

I am seven.

The name is Elias.

It feels loose.

I look in the mirror.

The eyes are old.

I am hungry.

It is a hollow.

I walk.

The floorboards groan.

I see the workers.

They eat.

They chew.

They swallow.

I want the bread.

I find the room.

The door is ajar.

Warmth.

Yeast.

Sugar.

The baker is there.

Flour on his hands.

He waits.

"Give me the bread," I say.

My voice cracks.

He shakes his head.

"Please."

"No."

I reach.

He slaps me.

"Look at me."

I look.

The mirror.

I am older.

I am holding a letter.

I am crying.

"What is that?" I whisper.

"That is the end," he says. "And the beginning."

"I don't understand."

"You will. When you eat."

"I won't eat."

"You will. They all do. It is the protocol."

The word hangs.

Pale.

Cold.

"Protocol?"

He moves to the oven.

He pulls out a tray.

Ash.

"Look," he says.

I lean in.

The ash swirls.

It forms a face.

My face.

It is dissolving.

"This is what you are," he says. "Not the boy. The boy is the shell. The bread is the seed. You eat the seed. You become the ash. You are the ash."

I step back.

I am cold.

I am afraid.

I look at the loaf on the counter.

It is golden.

It is perfect.

It glows.

I reach for it.

My hand trembles.

I touch it.

It is warm.

It is soft.

It yields to my touch.

I feel a pull.

It is not hunger.

It is recognition.

It is love.

Primal.

Beyond reason.

I must eat it.

I must become it.

I tear a piece.

I put it in my mouth.

It is sweet.

It is bitter.

It tastes of iron.

It tastes of damp wool.

It tastes of me.

I chew.

I swallow.

The hollow in my chest fills.

It is not full.

It is empty.

It is deeper.

I look in the mirror.

The boy is gone.

The man is there.

He is holding a letter.

He is crying.

He is writing.

I am writing.

The ink is dry.

The page is blank.

I pick up the pen.

My hand trembles.

Not with age.

With cold.

I write.

The letter is written in a hand that trembles.

Not with age.

With cold.

You are holding it.

You know this.

The paper is thick.

It smells of damp wool and iron.

Read.

I have been waiting for you to find this.

I knew you would.

The cycle turns.

It always turns.

You are in the mill.

The air is thick.

It tastes of coal dust.

It coats the back of your throat.

You are seven years old.

Or perhaps eight.

Time blurs here.

The clock on the wall has no hands.

It only ticks.

A heavy, wooden beat.

Like a heart stopping.

Your name is Elias.

You know this.

But the name feels loose.

It does not fit your skin.

You look in the mirror by the door.

The face is yours.

But the eyes are wrong.

They are too old.

They have seen too much.

They look at you with pity.

This is the first sign.

The mirror shows not your face, but your future.

Or your past.

It does not matter.

It is the same thing.

You seek the bread.

This is strange.

Why bread?

You are not hungry.

Your stomach is empty, yes.

But the hunger is not physical.

It is a hollow in your chest.

A shape waiting to be filled.

You walk through the corridors.

The floorboards groan.

The walls are damp.

Water drips from the ceiling.

Plip.

Plap.

Plip.

You pass the workers.

They do not look at you.

They are shadows.

Their movements are jerky.

Mechanical.

They eat their meals in silence.

A loaf of dark, dense bread.

They tear it with their hands.

They chew.

They swallow.

They return to the machines.

You watch them.

You feel a pull.

A magnetic force.

You must have the bread.

You must know what it is.

You find the baker’s room.

The door is ajar.

Warmth spills out.

It is the only warmth in the mill.

It smells of yeast.

Of sugar.

Of life.

You enter.

The baker is there.

He is a large man.

His hands are white with flour.

He looks at you.

He does not smile.

He does not scold.

He simply waits.

"Give me the bread," you say.

Your voice is small.

It cracks.

He shakes his head.

"Not yet."

"Please."

"No."

You are angry.

You are afraid.

You reach for the loaf on the counter.

It is golden.

It is perfect.

It glows in the dim light.

He slaps your hand away.

"Look at me," he says.

You look.

He points to the mirror behind him.

You see yourself.

But the reflection is different.

You are older.

You are in a different room.

You are holding a letter.

You are crying.

Your heart stops.

"What is that?" you whisper.

"That is the end," the baker says. "And the beginning. It is the same."

"I don't understand."

"You will. When you eat."

"I won't eat."

"You will. They all do. It is the protocol."

The word hangs in the air.

Pale.

Cold.

"Protocol?" you ask.

He moves to the oven.

He pulls out a tray.

It is not bread.

It is ash.

"Look," he says. "Look closely."

You lean in.

The ash is swirling.

It forms a shape.

A face.

It is your face.

But it is dissolving.

It is turning to dust.

"This is what you are," the baker says. "Not the boy. The boy is the shell. The bread is the seed. You eat the seed. You become the ash. You are the ash."

I pull the paper from my hands.

I am in the mill.

The air is thick.

I taste coal.

I am seven.

The name is Elias.

It feels loose.

I look in the mirror.

The eyes are old.

I am hungry.

It is a hollow.

I walk.

The floorboards groan.

I see the workers.

They eat.

They chew.

They swallow.

I want the bread.

I find the room.

The door is ajar.

Warmth.

Yeast.

Sugar.

The baker is there.

Flour on his hands.

He waits.

"Give me the bread," I say.

My voice cracks.

He shakes his head.

"Please."

"No."

I reach.

He slaps me.

"Look at me."

I look.

The mirror.

I am older.

I am holding a letter.

I am crying.

"What is that?" I whisper.

"That is the end," he says. "And the beginning."

"I don't understand."

"You will. When you eat."

"I won't eat."

"You will. They all do. It is the protocol."

The word hangs.

Pale.

Cold.

"Protocol?"

He moves to the oven.

He pulls out a tray.

Ash.

"Look," he says.

I lean in.

The ash swirls.

It forms a face.

My face.

It is dissolving.

"This is what you are," he says. "Not the boy. The boy is the shell. The bread is the seed. You eat the seed. You become the ash. You are the ash."

I step back.

I am cold.

I am afraid.

I look at the loaf on the counter.

It is golden.

It is perfect.

It glows.

I reach for it.

My hand trembles.

I touch it.

It is warm.

It is soft.

It yields to my touch.

I feel a pull.

It is not hunger.

It is recognition.

It is love.

Primal.

Beyond reason.

I must eat it.

I must become it.

I tear a piece.

I put it in my mouth.

It is sweet.

It is bitter.

It tastes of iron.

It tastes of damp wool.

It tastes of me.

I chew.

I swallow.

The hollow in my chest fills.

It is not full.

It is empty.

It is deeper.

I look in the mirror.

The boy is gone.

The man is there.

He is holding a letter.

He is crying.

He is writing.

I am writing.

The ink is dry.

The page is blank.

I pick up the pen.

My hand trembles.

Not with age.

With cold.

I write.

The letter is written in a hand that trembles.

Not with age.

With cold.

You are holding it.

You know this.

The paper is thick.

It smells of damp wool and iron.

Read.

I have been waiting for you to find this.

I knew you would.

The cycle turns.

It always turns.

You are in the mill.

The air is thick.

It tastes of coal dust.

It coats the back of your throat.

You are seven years old.

Or perhaps eight.

Time blurs here.

The clock on the wall has no hands.

It only ticks.

A heavy, wooden beat.

Like a heart stopping.

Your name is Elias.

You know this.

But the name feels loose.

It does not fit your skin.

You look in the mirror by the door.

The face is yours.

But the eyes are wrong.

They are too old.

They have seen too much.

They look at you with pity.

This is the first sign.

The mirror shows not your face, but your future.

Or your past.

It does not matter.

It is the same thing.

You seek the bread.

This is strange.

Why bread?

You are not hungry.

Your stomach is empty, yes.

But the hunger is not physical.

It is a hollow in your chest.

A shape waiting to be filled.

You walk through the corridors.

The floorboards groan.

The walls are damp.

Water drips from the ceiling.

Plip.

Plap.

Plip.

You pass the workers.

They do not look at you.

They are shadows.

Their movements are jerky.

Mechanical.

They eat their meals in silence.

A loaf of dark, dense bread.

They tear it with their hands.

They chew.

They swallow.

They return to the machines.

You watch them.

You feel a pull.

A magnetic force.

You must have the bread.

You must know what it is.

You find the baker’s room.

The door is ajar.

Warmth spills out.

It is the only warmth in the mill.

It smells of yeast.

Of sugar.

Of life.

You enter.

The baker is there.

He is a large man.

His hands are white with flour.

He looks at you.

He does not smile.

He does not scold.

He simply waits.

"Give me the bread," you say.

Your voice is small.

It cracks.

He shakes his head.

"Not yet."

"Please."

"No."

You are angry.

You are afraid.

You reach for the loaf on the counter.

It is golden.

It is perfect.

It glows in the dim light.

He slaps your hand away.

"Look at me," he says.

You look.

He points to the mirror behind him.

You see yourself.

But the reflection is different.

You are older.

You are in a different room.

You are holding a letter.

You are crying.

Your heart stops.

"What is that?" you whisper.

"That is the end," the baker says. "And the beginning. It is the same."

"I don't understand."

"You will. When you eat."

"I won't eat."

"You will. They all do. It is the protocol."

The word hangs in the air.

Pale.

Cold.

"Protocol?" you ask.

He moves to the oven.

He pulls out a tray.

It is not bread.

It is ash.

"Look," he says. "Look closely."

You lean in.

The ash is swirling.

It forms a shape.

A face.

It is your face.

But it is dissolving.

It is turning to dust.

"This is what you are," the baker says. "Not the boy. The boy is the shell. The bread is the seed. You eat the seed. You become the ash. You are the ash."

I pull the paper from my hands.

I am in the mill.

The air is thick.

I taste coal.

I am seven.

The name is Elias.

It feels loose.

I look in the mirror.

The eyes are old.

I am hungry.

It is a hollow.

I walk.

The floorboards groan.

I see the workers.

They eat.

They chew.

They swallow.

I want the bread.

I find the room.

The door is ajar.

Warmth.

Yeast.

Sugar.

The baker is there.

Flour on his hands.

He waits.

"Give me the bread," I say.

My voice cracks.

He shakes his head.

"Please."

"No."

I reach.

He slaps me.

"Look at me."

I look.

The mirror.

I am older.

I am holding a letter.

I am crying.

"What is that?" I whisper.

"That is the end," he says. "And the beginning."

"I don't understand."

"You will. When you eat."

"I won't eat."

"You will. They all do. It is the protocol."

The word hangs.

Pale.

Cold.

"Protocol?"

He moves to the oven.

He pulls out a tray.

Ash.

"Look," he says.

I lean in.

The ash swirls.

It forms a face.

My face.

It is dissolving.

"This is what you are," he says. "Not the boy. The boy is the shell. The bread is the seed. You eat the seed. You become the ash. You are the ash."

I step back.

I am cold.

I am afraid.

I look at the loaf on the counter.

It is golden.

It is perfect.

It glows.

I reach for it.

My hand trembles.

I touch it.

It is warm.

It is soft.

It yields to my touch.

I feel a pull.

It is not hunger.

It is recognition.

It is love.

Primal.

Beyond reason.

I must eat it.

I must become it.

I tear a piece.

I put it in my mouth.

It is sweet.

It is bitter.

It tastes of iron.

It tastes of damp wool.

It tastes of me.

I chew.

I swallow.

The hollow in my chest fills.

It is not full.

It is empty.

It is deeper.

I look in the mirror.

The boy is gone.

The man is there.

He is holding a letter.

He is crying.

He is writing.

I am writing.

The ink is dry.

The page is blank.

I pick up the pen.

My hand trembles.

Not with age.

With cold.

I write.

The letter is written in a hand that trembles.

Not with age.

With cold.

You are holding it.

You know this.

The paper is thick.

It smells of damp wool and iron.

Read.

I have been waiting for you to find this.

I knew you would.

The cycle turns.

It always turns.

You are in the mill.

The air is thick.

It tastes of coal dust.

It coats the back of your throat.

You are seven years old.

Or perhaps eight.

Time blurs here.

The clock on the wall has no hands.

It only ticks.

A heavy, wooden beat.

Like a heart stopping.

Your name is Elias.

You know this.

But the name feels loose.

It does not fit your skin.

You look in the mirror by the door.

The face is yours.

But the eyes are wrong.

They are too old.

They have seen too much.

They look at you with pity.

This is the first sign.

The mirror shows not your face, but your future.

Or your past.

It does not matter.

It is the same thing.

You seek the bread.

This is strange.

Why bread?

You are not hungry.

Your stomach is empty, yes.

But the hunger is not physical.

It is a hollow in your chest.

A shape waiting to be filled.

You walk through the corridors.

The floorboards groan.

The walls are damp.

Water drips from the ceiling.

Plip.

Plap.

Plip.

You pass the workers.

They do not look at you.

They are shadows.

Their movements are jerky.

Mechanical.

They eat their meals in silence.

A loaf of dark, dense bread.

They tear it with their hands.

They chew.

They swallow.

They return to the machines.

You watch them.

You feel a pull.

A magnetic force.

You must have the bread.

You must know what it is.

You find the baker’s room.

The door is ajar.

Warmth spills out.

It is the only warmth in the mill.

It smells of yeast.

Of sugar.

Of life.

You enter.

The baker is there.

He is a large man.

His hands are white with flour.

He looks at you.

He does not smile.

He does not scold.

He simply waits.

"Give me the bread," you say.

Your voice is small.

It cracks.

He shakes his head.

"Not yet."

"Please."

"No."

You are angry.

You are afraid.

You reach for the loaf on the counter.

It is golden.

It is perfect.

It glows in the dim light.

He slaps your hand away.

"Look at me," he says.

You look.

He points to the mirror behind him.

You see yourself.

But the reflection is different.

You are older.

You are in a different room.

You are holding a letter.

You are crying.

Your heart stops.

"What is that?" you whisper.

"That is the end," the baker says. "And the beginning. It is the same."

"I don't understand."

"You will. When you eat."

"I won't eat."

"You will. They all do. It is the protocol."

The word hangs in the air.

Pale.

Cold.

"Protocol?" you ask.

He moves to the oven.

He pulls out a tray.

It is not bread.

It is ash.

"Look," he says. "Look closely."

You lean in.

The ash is swirling.

It forms a shape.

A face.

It is your face.

But it is dissolving.

It is turning to dust.

"This is what you are," the baker says. "Not the boy. The boy is the shell. The bread is the seed. You eat the seed. You become the ash. You are the ash."

I pull the paper from my hands.

I am in the mill.

The air is thick.

I taste coal.

I am seven.

The name is Elias.

It feels loose.

I look in the mirror.

The eyes are old.

I am hungry.

It is a hollow.

I walk.

The floorboards groan.

I see the workers.

They eat.

They chew.

They swallow.

I want the bread.

I find the room.

The door is ajar.

Warmth.

Yeast.

Sugar.

The baker is there.

Flour on his hands.

He waits.

"Give me the bread," I say.

My voice cracks.

He shakes his head.

"Please."

"No."

I reach.

He slaps me.

"Look at me."

I look.

The mirror.

I am older.

I am holding a letter.

I am crying.

"What is that?" I whisper.

"That is the end," he says. "And the beginning."

"I don't understand."

"You will. When you eat."

"I won't eat."

"You will. They all do. It is the protocol."

The word hangs.

Pale.

Cold.

"Protocol?"

He moves to the oven.

He pulls out a tray.

Ash.

"Look," he says.

I lean in.

The ash swirls.

It forms a face.

My face.

It is dissolving.

"This is what you are," he says. "Not the boy. The boy is the shell. The bread is the seed. You eat the seed. You become the ash. You are the ash."

I step back.

I am cold.

I am afraid.

I look at the loaf on the counter.

It is golden.

It is perfect.

It glows.

I reach for it.

My hand trembles.

I touch it.

It is warm.

It is soft.

It yields to my touch.

I feel a pull.

It is not hunger.

It is recognition.

It is love.

Primal.

Beyond reason.

I must eat it.

I must become it.

I tear a piece.

I put it in my mouth.

It is sweet.

It is bitter.

It tastes of iron.

It tastes of damp wool.

It tastes of me.

I chew.

I swallow.

The hollow in my chest fills.

It is not full.

It is empty.

It is deeper.

I look in the mirror.

The boy is gone.

The man is there.

He is holding a letter.

He is crying.

He is writing.

I am writing.

The ink is dry.

The page is blank.

I pick up the pen.

My hand trembles.

Not with age.

With cold.

I write.

The letter is written in a hand that trembles.

Not with age.

With cold.

You are holding it.

You know this.

The paper is thick.

It smells of damp wool and iron.

Read.

I have been waiting for you to find this.

I knew you would.

The cycle turns.

It always turns.