“Mira.”
She didn’t answer.
“Mira, wake up.”
Her eyes opened halfway.
Tomas was kneeling beside her.
“You passed out.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been saying that for three days.”
She pushed herself up.
“Where’s Slim?”
Tomas didn’t answer.

The back room was empty.
The bowl was still there.
The rag she used to wipe him down.
A dent in the floorboards where he liked to sit.
“…Slim?”
Nothing.

“You told him to leave?”
“I didn’t have to,” Tomas said.
Mira turned slowly.
“What did you say to him.”
“I told him what would happen if he stayed.”

She found the note on the counter.
Not paper.
Flour.
Spread in uneven lines.
Slow. Careful.
Like someone writing with mittens on.
l e f t
s o r r y
s t e a d y
n o w
Her throat tightened.

“People were asking questions,” Tomas said quietly.
“The Wolves came back.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know.”
A beat.
“He didn’t want to hurt you.”

The ovens felt colder after that.
The dough didn’t rise the same.
Mira kept checking the door anyway.
Every time the bell rang.

A week later:
The water glass on the counter fogged when she walked by.
Tomas didn’t say anything.

Two weeks:
The sourdough starter began bubbling faster when she hummed.

A month:
The flowers outside the window bloomed early.
Wrong season.
Wrong color.
Soft blue.

“You’re still tired,” Tomas said one morning.
“I sleep.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She wiped flour off her hands.
“I’m fine.”
He didn’t argue.

Sometimes:
When the ovens were on.
And the kitchen was quiet.
The air beside her hand would dent.
Just slightly.
Like someone leaning in.

“…s…teady.”
She didn’t turn.
“I know,” she said.
“I’m here.”

The bell jingled once.
No one came in.
But the door stayed open a little longer than it should have.

Hope yall enjoyed this! More dialogue so its more interesting to work on.