Elias would smile, crumb-dusted and calm. “But this one fits my hand.”
He turned to leave, but the fog had crept under the door and filled the bakery like a sleeping breath. The windows were gone. The walls were gone. Silas found himself standing not in the bakery but in a long, narrow corridor made of bone-white wood, lit by candles that burned without smoke. At the far end sat a table. On the table, a single bowl of cold stew. And in Silas’s hand, the golden spoon. The Golden Spoon
He tried to drop it. It stuck to his palm. Elias would smile, crumb-dusted and calm
Silas laughed—a shrill, broken sound. “I don’t believe in curses. I believe in gold.” Elias would smile