The smell of bread had always been a comfort to Clara. On market days, when her father would hurry her along the cobbled street, she slowed her steps near the bakery just to breathe in the warm air that spilled out the open door. Bread meant safety. Bread meant morning. Bread meant the ordinary.
But this morning, when Mortimer appeared again—no longer hidden in shadows but walking beside her as if he had always belonged—he guided her straight toward the bakery.
"Why here?" Clara whispered, glancing nervously at the people bustling past. Could they not see the tall figure draped in folded black paper, his cracked mask turning with every movement? No one looked twice.
"Because he is forgetting," Mortimer said, voice thin and papery. "And when people forget why they began, the dark grows fat inside them."
The bakery's bell jingled as Clara pushed open the door. The air was rich with the smell of yeast and butter. Loaves lined the shelves like soldiers, each one golden, each one flawless. Behind the counter stood the baker, a man with shoulders rounded from years of kneading dough. His hair was white with flour dust, his apron a battlefield of stains. He smiled automatically when Clara stepped inside.
"Good morning, little miss," he said, but his eyes flickered strangely—bright and empty at once.
Mortimer lingered in the corner, unseen. "Watch," he whispered.
The baker reached for a loaf, wrapped it with swift, practiced hands, and slid it across the counter. A woman thanked him, paid her coins, and left. Another customer entered; the same motions followed. His hands were fast, perfect, mechanical.
But Clara noticed what Mortimer meant. The man's face never changed. His smile was fixed, carved there, while his eyes remained hollow.
"Do you enjoy baking?" Clara asked when the counter was empty.
The baker paused. His flour-dusted hands tightened. "Of course," he said. "It is what I do."
"Yes," Mortimer murmured in her ear. "What he does. But not what he loves."
The baker turned back to the oven, sliding in a new tray of rolls. His movements were sharp, almost angry. Flames flared inside, hotter than seemed right. Clara shivered as heat spilled into the room.
"Why did you start?" she asked softly.
The baker froze. For a moment, his shoulders slumped, as though her words had reached a place he had buried. Then he straightened. "Because… because bread is needed. Always needed. People must eat."
Mortimer's laugh was dry as dust. "A practical lie."
Clara frowned. "No—before that. Before you thought of what people need."
The baker turned. His face was pale, lined deeper than before. "Little girl," he said, voice shaking, "why do you ask such things?"
"Because you've forgotten," Clara whispered.
The oven roared suddenly, flames licking higher, hotter. The loaves inside blackened too quickly, their golden crusts cracking, collapsing. Smoke coiled upward, thick and sour. The baker cried out, rushing to pull them free, but every loaf he touched turned to ash in his hands.
"No!" His voice broke. "No, no, no!"
The air grew heavy. Shadows stretched long in the corners of the bakery. Mortimer stepped forward, his mask gleaming in the smoke. The baker's eyes widened, yet he did not scream. Perhaps he had always felt something watching him, waiting.
"You made bread for joy once," Mortimer said. His whisper filled the whole room. "You burned your first crusts because you wanted to share warmth, not perfection. Do you remember?"
The baker's hands trembled. Ash fell between his fingers. "I… I was a boy. My mother's hands guided mine. I wanted… I wanted her to taste what I could make, to see her smile. That was all." His voice cracked. "But she died. And I—" He stopped, choking on the smoke.
"And you forgot the smile," Mortimer finished. "You kneaded only habit. You baked only need. And so the fire inside you turned hungry."
Clara coughed, pressing her sleeve to her mouth. The flames were too strong now, rolling out of the oven as if they wanted to devour the bakery itself. "Mortimer, we have to stop it!"
The tall figure turned toward her. "I cannot. Only he can."
The baker sank to his knees, tears cutting lines through the flour on his cheeks. "How? Tell me how!"
"Remember," Mortimer whispered. "Not the death. Not the hunger. The beginning."
Clara knelt beside the man. She touched his soot-blackened hand. "What was the first bread you made?"
His eyes squeezed shut. "A small roll. Burned on the edges. Doughy in the middle. But she ate it. She laughed. She said it was perfect because I made it." His breath shook. "I wanted to make her laugh again. Always."
The fire slowed. The smoke thinned. Clara looked toward the oven—inside, the flames folded inward, curling down to embers.
The baker opened his eyes. The hollowness was gone, replaced by something rawer, sadder, but real. He stood, steadying himself on the counter.
"I had forgotten," he whispered. "Not the taste of bread. The taste of love."
The air cleared. The bakery felt ordinary again: warm, yeasty, safe. But on the counter, among the ashes, lay a single loaf unburned. Its crust was uneven, imperfect, yet golden. The baker stared at it, then reached with shaking hands and broke it in two. Steam rose, soft and fragrant.
He offered half to Clara. "Will you taste it?"
She bit into the bread. It was plain, rough, but it filled her chest with warmth, the way a hug from her mother might have if she could still remember it clearly.
The baker's tears slipped silently. "Thank you," he said.
Mortimer leaned close, whispering so only Clara heard: "For now, he is safe. But there are many who burn their dreams. You will see them. You must listen."
Clara swallowed the bread, her throat tight. She glanced up at Mortimer's cracked mask. "Why me?"
His hollow eyes gleamed. "Because you hear. And because the dark is not finished."