The smell of rosemary fills the kitchen tonight, sharp and earthy, winding its way through the air like a whispered memory. A loaf of bread rests on the counter, golden and warm, the crust cracked just enough to show the softness beneath. He’s standing there, sleeves rolled up, one hand trailing over the surface of the loaf like he’s smoothing out its thoughts.

“Bread’s honest,” he says, breaking the silence. His voice is steady, but there’s a weight to it tonight. “You can’t rush it. You can’t cheat it. It’s patient, stubborn. It’ll only rise when it’s good and ready.”

He picks up a serrated knife, testing its edge with his thumb. The bread doesn’t seem to mind—it knows what’s coming.

“Today was heavy,” he says quietly, slicing through the loaf. The crust crunches under the blade, the sound like footsteps on gravel. “Not bad. Just… heavy.”

---

There was a woman at the café today. Not a regular, though she looked like she wanted to be. Mid-thirties, maybe. Blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail that had seen better days. She ordered a cappuccino, then stood at the counter, staring at the menu like it was written in a language she didn’t know.

“I noticed her hands first,” I tell you, laying the knife down beside the bread. “They were shaking. Not much, just enough to make the cup rattle when she picked it up. She smiled at me—this tight, polite thing that didn’t touch her eyes. And I thought, _that’s not a smile. That’s a mask._”

He pauses, brushing a few stray crumbs from the counter.

“Most people wouldn’t have noticed. But you know me. I don’t miss much.”

---

She took a seat by the far wall, the kind of spot you choose when you don’t want anyone to see you but still want to see them. She didn’t touch her cappuccino. Just stared at it, her fingers tracing circles around the edge of the saucer.

“I had this feeling,” I say, my fingers tapping lightly against the counter as though echoing her movements. “You know the kind. Like something’s teetering on the edge of happening. Like the air’s too thick, the room too still.”

And then, just as I was about to go over and ask if she needed anything, she reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of papers.

“They were folded, creased like she’d been carrying them for a while. She smoothed them out on the table, one by one, and started reading. Not flipping through them, not skimming. Just… reading. Slowly. Carefully. Like the words mattered more than the paper they were written on.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t see what they were. Too far away. But I could see her face. And that’s when it hit me.”

---

He picks up a sprig of rosemary, rolling it between his fingers as if the motion helps him think.

“Grief,” he says finally, his voice soft but certain. “That’s what it was. She wasn’t just reading. She was remembering. Holding on. Letting go. All at once.”

He sets the rosemary down and reaches for a small dish of olive oil, swirling it with balsamic vinegar until it pools in dark, glistening circles.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” he says, his tone shifting, lighter now but no less thoughtful. “How something so small—a cup of coffee, a stack of papers—can carry so much weight? Like breadcrumbs, leading you to the things you thought you’d left behind.”

---

He slices the bread into thick pieces, each one soft and airy, the crust crackling under his hands. He dips a piece into the oil, watching the dark liquid soak into the golden crumb.

“Bread’s honest,” he says again, almost to himself this time. “It doesn’t hide anything. You knead it, shape it, let it rise. And when it’s ready, it tells you.”

He sets the plate of bread on the table, his expression somewhere between a smile and a sigh.

“That woman today? She left before I could say anything. Took her papers, folded them back into her bag, and walked out the door. Didn’t finish her coffee. Didn’t look back.”

He leans on the counter, arms crossed, and looks at you.

“But she left something. A feeling. A memory. A breadcrumb.” He nods toward the bread, his gaze steady. “That’s what this is. Something simple. Honest. Something to hold onto when the air feels too thick, and the room feels too still.”

He breaks off a piece of bread and holds it out, his eyes soft but searching.

“Go on. Try it. Tell me if it feels the same.”