Kiluminvti

Death came back three nights later carrying a loaf of bread.

It had no idea why.

“I believe this is what people bring when visiting.”

You looked at the loaf. It was hard enough to settle old arguments.

“How long have you been carrying that?”

“It says it expired eighteen years ago.”

“You read the date and still brought it?”

“I assumed expiration was a suggestion.”

You laughed so hard you had to sit down. Once again, something beneath the tattered cloak answered with a quiet pulse of light.

“There it is again,” you said.

“It only happens around you.”

“Maybe it’s indigestion.”

“I don’t have organs.”

“Must be nice.”

“I’ve heard mixed opinions.”

You cut away the mold and toasted what little could be saved. It watched each step with the concentration of a student afraid to disappoint a patient teacher.

“So this is cooking.”

“This is surviving bad shopping.”

It nodded as though those were the same thing.

Outside, rain soaked the street. People hurried beneath umbrellas, chasing dinners, deadlines, and people who were probably not worth chasing. The cloaked figure stood at the window, silent.

“Do they know?” it asked.

“Know what?”

“That every ordinary evening becomes the last ordinary evening eventually.”

You shrugged.

“If we knew, we’d never leave the house.”

“But you still do.”

“That’s because bread goes stale.”

It looked at the ruined loaf on the counter.

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I don’t?”

“You think the point is keeping the bread forever.”

You handed it a warm slice.

“The point is eating it while it’s still good.”

The room fell quiet.

Somewhere far away, bells began to ring.

The light beneath the cloak grew brighter than before.

For a heartbeat, you could have sworn the shadows around its feet stepped backward, as if even darkness had forgotten whose side it was supposed to be on.


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