You are standing in the cellar. The air is thick. It smells of damp stone and old bread. You are hungry. Not for food. For something else. Something you cannot name. The stone walls press in. They are cold. They are wet. You touch them. Your fingers leave dark marks. You are Margaret. You are the baker’s daughter. Or you were. Now you are just the woman in the cellar.

The door above slams shut. A heavy chain rattle. The lock clicks. You are alone. Or you are not. There is a presence here. It is not a person. It is a feeling. It is the weight of the flour sacks stacked high in the corner. They are white. They are full. They are waiting. You look at them. They do not blink. They do not breathe. They are still. They have always been still.

You remember the day you came here. It was a morning. The sky was grey. You wore a blue dress. It was clean. You were proud. You had made the bread. It was perfect. Round. Golden. Soft. The Master had tasted it. He had frowned. He said it was not enough. He said you lacked fire. He said you lacked soul. You wanted to argue. Your mouth opened. No sound came out. He turned away. He called for the guards. The guards came. They were large. They were silent. They took your hands. They led you down the stairs. The stairs were long. The darkness was deep.

Now it is night. Or it is day. You cannot tell. The candle burns low. The flame flickers. It dances. It is afraid. You are not afraid. You are tired. You are so tired. You sit on the cold floor. Your back hurts. Your feet hurt. You look at the flour sacks again. They are mocking you. They are full of life. You are empty. You are hollow. You want to cry. You do not cry. You do not have tears left. You used them all up years ago. Or perhaps hours ago. Time is strange here. Time moves in circles.

A sound comes from above. Footsteps. Heavy. Slow. You hold your breath. The footsteps stop. The door opens. Light floods in. It is blinding. You shield your eyes. A figure stands there. It is tall. It is dark. It is the Master. He holds a tray. On the tray is a loaf of bread. It is fresh. It is steaming. It smells of honey and warmth. It is beautiful. It is terrible.

He drops the tray. The bread rolls on the stone floor. It is whole. It is perfect. He does not pick it up. He looks at you. His eyes are hard. They are stone. He says nothing. He turns. He walks away. The door slams. The chain rattle. You are alone again.

You look at the bread. It is golden. It glows. It calls to you. You want it. You need it. It is not food. It is proof. It is proof that you can still make something. It is proof that you are not nothing. You crawl toward it. Your knees scrape the stone. It is rough. It is sharp. You reach for the bread. Your fingers touch the crust. It is warm. It is soft. It yields under your touch. You pull it close. You hold it in your lap. You do not eat it. You hug it. You whisper to it. You tell it your name. You tell it your pain. You tell it your fear. The bread listens. It does not judge. It is kind. It is patient. It is you.

You look at your hands. They are dirty. They are weak. They are the hands of a baker. But they are also the hands of a prisoner. They are the hands of a ghost. You look at the flour sacks. They are watching. They are waiting. You realize something. You have been here before. You have been here many times. You have always made the bread. You have always been punished. You have always been locked in the cellar. You have always found the bread. You have always held it. You have never eaten it. Why? You do not know. You try to remember. The memories are foggy. They are thin. They slip through your fingers like water.

You stand up. Your legs shake. You are dizzy. The room spins. The walls lean in. You grab the edge of the table. The table is solid. It is real. The bread is in your hands. It is warm. It is alive. You look at the door. It is closed. It is locked. You cannot leave. You are not meant to leave. You are meant to stay. You are meant to wait. You are meant to be the bread.

A voice comes from the dark. It is soft. It is female. It is not the Master. It is not the guards. It is someone else. It is a whisper. It is a memory. It is your mother. She is in the cellar with you. She has always been in the cellar with you. She is old. She is frail. She is hungry. She looks at you. She looks at the bread. She smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a proud smile.

Why did you not eat it? she asks. Her voice is thin. It is like dry leaves.

I was afraid, you say. Your voice is small. It is broken.

Afraid of what?

Afraid of being hungry again.

But you are hungry now.

I know.

Then why?

Because if I eat it, it is gone. If it is gone, I am nothing. If I hold it, I am something. I am the keeper. I am the guardian. I am the last one.

The mother nods. She understands. She has always understood. She was here before you. She was the one before you. And before her, there was another. And before that, another. The lineage is long. The lineage is unbroken. The cellar is eternal. The bread is eternal. The hunger is eternal.

You look at the bread again. It is fading. The light is leaving it. It is becoming grey. It is becoming stale. It is becoming stone. You hold it tighter. You squeeze it. The crust cracks. Flour spills out. It is white dust. It fills the air. You cough. You choke. The dust is in your lungs. It is in your blood. It is in your soul. You are breathing flour. You are becoming flour. You are becoming the sack. You are becoming the wall.

The mother steps forward. She is closer now. She is touching you. Her hand is on your shoulder. It is cold. It is heavy. She is pulling you down. She is pushing you into the floor. The floor is soft. It is warm. It is like dough. You sink into it. You are melting. You are dissolving. You are becoming part of the cellar. You are becoming part of the stone. You are becoming part of the bread.

No, you think. I will not be part of it. I will not be the sacrifice. I will not be the fuel. I will break the cycle. I will eat the bread. I will consume it. I will destroy it. I will end the line.

You bring the bread to your mouth. Your lips touch the crust. It is sweet. It is salty. It is bitter. It is everything. You take a bite. The taste is overwhelming. It is the taste of your childhood. It is the taste of your mother’s hands. It is the taste of your father’s anger. It is the taste of your own blood. It is the taste of death.

You chew. You swallow. The bread disappears. It is gone. You are empty. You are light. You are free. The cellar is silent. The mother is gone. The flour sacks are gone. The walls are gone. You are standing in an open field. The sky is blue. The sun is bright. The wind is warm. You are breathing. You are alive. You are free.

But then you look down. You are not in a field. You are in the cellar. The walls are back. The floor is back. The flour sacks are back. They are full. They are white. They are waiting. You look at your hands. They are empty. They are clean. They are soft. You look at the door. It is open. The light is shining in. The Master is standing there. He is smiling. He is holding a new tray. On the tray is a new loaf. It is fresh. It is steaming. It is golden.

You did not break the cycle. You only fed it. You are the bread. You are the hunger. You are the cellar. You are the lock. You are the key. You are the sacrifice. You are the offering. You are the eternal return.

You walk toward the door. Your feet do not touch the ground. You are floating. You are drifting. You are dissolving. The Master watches. He does not stop you. He does not need to. You are going where you are supposed to go. You are going to the top. You are going to the kitchen. You are going to the oven. You are going to become the bread.

You pass the Master. He nods. He is kind. He is proud. He is your father. He is your son. He is you. You step out of the cellar. The air is cool. It is crisp. It smells of rain. You walk to the table. You knead the dough. Your hands are strong. Your hands are sure. You shape the loaf. You make it round. You make it golden. You make it perfect. You put it in the oven. The heat rises. The smell fills the room. The smell fills the house. The smell fills the town. The smell fills the world.

You are happy. You are content. You are complete. You are the baker. You are the daughter. You are the prisoner. You are the free. You are the one who stays. You are the one who leaves. You are the one who returns.

The oven door closes. The heat is intense. The light is bright. You close your eyes. You smile. You are golden. You are warm. You are soft. You are ready. You are done. You are beginning.