He kneaded his grief into the dough, then set it on the counter to rise.

For the next few hours he wandered from one room to another, uncertain of what to do with himself. He punched the bloated ball down and shaped it into a loaf. Then he left it to rise once more. People told him to keep busy. Try new things.

He pulled the bread from the oven, its smell filled the small kitchen. He tore it into chunks and tossed in the back alley. Hoping the way he felt would fly off with the birds he’d fed.


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