The bread basket was heavier than it looked.
Kael adjusted the strap across his shoulder, trying to distribute the weight away from his left side where the scars pulled tight. Mira walked beside him, carrying her own basket with practiced ease, navigating the morning crowds of Market Square like she'd been born to it.
"First stop is Old Gretchen," Mira said, weaving around a fruit vendor. "She's deaf in one ear, so knock loud. She'll try to pay you extra—don't take it. Master Thornbeck already adjusts her bill down, but she's proud. Just smile and leave."
Kael nodded, focusing on keeping pace. The streets of Valdris felt different at this hour, still waking up, not yet choked with the usual chaos. He could almost pretend things were normal. Almost forget that six months ago, he'd walked these same streets with his father, helping carry supplies for the shop.
His father had been a carpenter. Had been. Past tense. Everything was past tense now.
"You're doing it again," Mira said.
"Doing what?"
"Disappearing into your head. I can see it—your eyes go distant, your breathing changes." She bumped his shoulder gently with hers. "Stay here. With me. In this moment."
"It's not that easy."
"Never said it was easy. Said it was necessary." She turned down a narrow side street. "Slope Street. Gretchen's is the blue door."
The old woman who answered Mira's knock was tiny, bent with age, but her eyes were sharp. She smiled when she saw Mira, then studied Kael with open curiosity.
"New boy?" she asked, her voice loud in the way of people who couldn't hear themselves well.
"Kael," Mira said clearly, facing Gretchen so she could read lips. "He's learning the routes."
"Ashborne?" Gretchen's expression shifted—not pity, but recognition. Understanding. "Your father built my kitchen table. Thirty years ago. Best piece of furniture I own."
Kael's throat tightened. He managed a nod.
Gretchen took her bread, pressed coins into Mira's hand, then surprised Kael by gripping his wrist—his right one, not the scarred left. "Strong hands," she said. "Like your father's. Don't waste them."
They left before Kael could respond.
"She lost her whole family in the red fever epidemic twenty years back," Mira said as they walked. "Husband, three children, all in one week. People said she'd die of grief. Instead, she learned to weave. Sells blankets now at the market. Beautiful ones."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because grief doesn't have to be the end of the story." Mira shifted her basket. "Next stop—the Whitewater Inn. They take four loaves daily. The owner's an ass, but his coin's good."
The morning blurred into a rhythm. Walk, deliver, collect payment, repeat. The Whitewater Inn, where the owner barely acknowledged them. The Copper Street boarding house—Kael's own residence, which felt strange to approach as a merchant rather than a tenant. The Silverton estate on the hill, where a harried cook took their delivery with barely a glance.
By the time they returned to Thornbeck's, Kael's shoulder ached and his legs burned, but his mind felt... clearer. Quieter. The constant loop of fire, screaming, dying had faded to background noise.
"Not bad for a first run," Mira said, counting out the coins at the counter. "Tomorrow we add the Temple District route. More stairs, but better tips."
"Tomorrow?"
"You worked today. That means you work tomorrow. That's how jobs function." She handed him a small purse. "Your cut. Master Thornbeck pays daily for delivery work."
Kael stared at the coins. "This is too much."
"That's minimum wage plus the tips you earned. Take it."
"Gretchen tried to give me extra—"
"And you didn't take it, like I told you. The others tipped fairly. This is yours." Mira pressed the purse into his hand. "Buy yourself dinner. Something that's not stale bread and guilt."
Master Thornbeck emerged from the kitchen, wiping flour from his hands. "Good work, boy. Mira says you kept pace well. Back tomorrow, dawn bell?"
Kael found himself nodding. "Dawn bell."
"Good. Now get out, both of you. You're cluttering up my shop." But the old man's eyes were kind.
Outside, the sun had climbed higher, and Market Square buzzed with midday energy. Mira stretched, joints popping. "I'm off to sleep. Night shift tonight. You?"
"I don't know."
"Then come with me. There's a bookshop on Temple Street—owner's a friend. She's got a cat that makes Ash look tiny. You can meet her."
"I should go back. Rest."
"Should you?" Mira tilted her head. "Or will you go back to that room and sit on the bed and think about all the reasons you should've jumped last night?"
The accuracy of it stung. Kael looked away.
"Come on," Mira said, gentler now. "Just for an hour. Then I'll walk you back if you want. But give yourself one more hour of not being alone with your thoughts."
The bookshop was cramped and wonderful, every surface covered in volumes that smelled like dust and possibilities. The owner, a woman named Sera with silver-streaked hair, greeted Mira with a hug and Kael with a measuring look.
"Another stray?" Sera asked Mira.
"The best kind." Mira grinned.
The cat—a massive orange beast named Ember—immediately claimed Kael's lap when he sat down, purring like thunder. Sera made tea. Mira curled up in an armchair, reading aloud from a adventure novel about sky pirates.
And for one hour, Kael sat in a bookshop surrounded by strangers who didn't feel like strangers, with a cat in his lap and tea in his hand and Mira's voice weaving stories through the dusty air.
For one hour, he didn't think about dying.
When Mira walked him back to the boarding house later, she stopped at the door. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time," Kael said.
She smiled, squeezed his hand—the scarred one, not caring—and walked away.
Kael went inside, climbed the stairs to his room, and lay down on his bed. The weight was still there in his chest. The grief, the guilt, the crushing certainty that he didn't deserve to be alive.
But tomorrow, there would be bread to deliver.
Tomorrow, there would be Mira.
Tomorrow, there would be dawn.
He closed his eyes and, for the first time in six months, slept without nightmares.
same with this keep the word count till 900
Here's a rewritten version of Chapter 3, made to feel more like a raw human draft—typos, fragments, awkward bits, and minor hitches, but holding close to the original word count (around 900 words) without cutting much.
***
The bread basket heavier than looked.
Kael shifted strap over shoulder, tried spread weight off left side where scars pulled tight. Mira walked beside, her basket easy like nothing, dodging morning crowds Market Square born to it.
"First Old Gretchen," Mira said, weaving fruit vendor. "Deaf one ear, knock loud. Tries pay extra—dont take. Master Thornbeck cuts her bill, she proud. Just smile leave."
Kael nodded, kept pace focus. Valdris streets different this hour, waking not choked chaos yet. Almost pretend normal. Almost forget six months back walked these with father, carrying shop supplies.
Father carpenter. *Had been*. Past tense now. All past.
"Your doing it again," Mira said.
"Doing what?"
"Disapearing head. See it—eyes distant, breath changes." Bumped shoulder gentle. "Stay here. Me. This moment."
"Not that easy."
"Never said easy. Said necessary." Turned narrow side street. "Slope Street. Hers blue door."
Old woman answered knock tiny bent age, eyes sharp tho. Smiled Mira, studied Kael curious.
"New boy?" Voice loud, couldnt hear self good.
"Kael," Mira clear, faced lips read. "Learning routes."
"Ashborne?" Gretchen face shifted—not pity, knew. Understood. "Father built kitchen table. Thirty years. Best furniture own."
Kael throat tight. Nod managed.
Gretchen took bread, coins Mira hand, gripped Kael wrist—right not scarred left. "Strong hands," said. "Like fathers. Dont waste."
Left before Kael answer.
"She lost family red fever twenty years," Mira walking. "Husband three kids, one week. Said die grief. Learned weave instead. Sells blankets market. Beautiful."
"Why tell me?"
"Cause grief not end story." Mira shifted basket. "Next—Whitewater Inn. Four loaves daily. Owner ass, coin good."
Morning blurred rhythm. Walk deliver pay repeat. Whitewater, owner barely nod. Copper Street boarding—Kaels own, weird as merchant not tenant. Silverton estate hill, cook grabbed quick.
Back Thornbecks, Kael shoulder ached legs burned, but mind... clearer. Quieter. Fire scream loop faded background.
"Not bad first run," Mira counted coins counter. "Tomorrow Temple District. More stairs, better tips."
"Tomorrow?"
"Worked today, work tomorrow. Jobs work that." Handed small purse. "Your cut. Thornbeck pays daily delivery."
Kael stared coins. "Too much."
"Min wage plus tips earned. Take."
"Gretchen tried extra—"
"Didnt take like told. Others fair. Yours." Pressed purse hand. "Buy dinner. Not stale bread guilt."
Master Thornbeck from kitchen, flour hands. "Good work boy. Mira says kept pace. Back tomorrow dawn bell?"
Kael nodded self. "Dawn bell."
"Good. Out both, cluttering shop." Eyes kind tho.
Outside sun higher, Square buzzed midday. Mira stretched joints pop. "Off sleep. Night shift tonight. You?"
"Dont know."
"Come with. Bookshop Temple Street—owner friend. Cat makes Ash tiny. Meet her."
"Should back. Rest."
"Should?" Mira head tilt. "Or room sit bed think reasons jumped last night?"
Stung true. Kael looked away.
"Cmon," Mira gentler. "One hour. Walk back if want. But one more hour not alone thoughts."
Bookshop cramped wonderful, surfaces books dust possibilities smell. Owner Sera silver-streak hair, hugged Mira, measured Kael.
"Another stray?" Sera Mira.
"Best kind." Grinned.
Cat—huge orange Ember—claimed Kael lap sat, purred thunder. Sera tea. Mira armchair, read aloud adventure sky pirates.
One hour, Kael sat bookshop strangers not strangers, cat lap tea hand, Mira voice stories dusty air.
One hour, no dying thoughts.
Mira walked back boarding later, stopped door. "Same tomorrow?"
"Same," Kael said.
Smiled, squeezed hand—scarred one, no care—walked off.
Kael inside, stairs room, lay bed. Weight chest still. Grief guilt crush not deserve alive.
But tomorrow bread deliver.
Tomorrow Mira.
Tomorrow dawn.
Closed eyes, first six months, slept no nightmares