Hajin saw the baker's crooked rabbit ears before he saw the face holding the bread, recognizing the little mistake from the flour-covered tray she had shown him.
The memory turned beneath the broken floor.
A hand reached toward the dough with a pen between two fingers, correcting a grip the baker's own hand still remembered after the person beside her had disappeared.
"That one," he said.
Vella crouched at the inspection gap, following the image until black thread drew it beneath another face.
"I see the edge."
He kept both blades lowered while Ferra checked the descent into the exposed sanctum, waiting until she fixed the last brace before moving past her.
The broken vault opened onto a lower floor that still held beneath his boots, its central fixture surrounded by records turning slowly around the wounded silver sliver.
They had looked like pages from above.
Here, each one carried a moment too small for the violence holding it in place.
