I’m not ready for noise again.
I turn to the only things that makes sense.
Baking.
The dough’s too soft.
Third time adjusting flour.
Still collapses.
Like everything I build.
Grandmother would be ashamed. “Vitya, you must feel with your hands, not think with your head.”
I can still see her hands when I close my eyes.
Small. Flour-dusted. Wrinkled like bread dough left too long to proof.
She’d cup my face when I got something right. “There, Vitya. You feel it now?”
I felt it.
Before Oksana.
Before the lies.
Before I learned that warmth could be weaponized.
Now my hands only remember compliance.
The dough knows I’m distracted.
It won’t rise for a man who isn’t present.
I press my thumb into the dough ball and hold it there.
Deep breath.
Try again.
The bell above the front door jingles.
Not the normal sound.
This one lands in my spine wrong.
Like metal scraping brick.
Noah calls a greeting from the counter, cheerful on instinct.
I don’t look up.
I finish shaping the dough ball, press it into the tray, cover it with cloth.
Something that doesn’t belong in a bakery crosses the threshold.
Heavy steps.
