At first, it scared her. The smell, the sight—it all brought back fear. So we started slowly. We turned bread into something safe again—feeding birds, cooking together, baking at home.
Months later, when her hands had healed, we baked a loaf together. She hesitated at the oven, so I showed her how we stay safe—how heat is controlled, not used to hurt.
When it was done, she asked if she could have the first piece.
I said yes.
A year later, life felt ordinary again—and that ordinary felt like a gift.
One morning, she stood in our kitchen, sunlight on her face, tearing a piece of bread. She paused for a second, as if expecting to be stopped.
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