A Burned Piece of Bread

"What?" Ricky's face twisted in confusion, his brows knitting together. He was caught off guard. "Why is your mother's name the same as this place?" He sat still, his fist resting under his chin, his eyes unfocused.

"We don't know the exact reason," Sis said, exhaling slowly as she leaned against the brick wall. "But about a year ago, Mom left us to work in this city."

She took a moment, then continued. "She used to write us letters," her voice quieter now. She closed her eyes, as if pulling the memories from deep within. "In every letter, she mentioned the bar she worked in. And each time, she sent a small pouch of money—twelve coppers.The money was just enough for us to live on."

(12 coppers = $0.50) (It takes 1 silver to buy a loaf of bread.)

"She wrote to us once a month."

Her thoughts drifted further into the past as she spoke, the weight of it settling over her.

At a different time, in the same city that Shin had seen in his mind—the city of Novaris.

Beneath a towering tree, two children lay huddled together, wrapped in a single thick piece of clothing to shield themselves from the falling snow. Yet, no matter how much they covered themselves, the cold flakes continued to gather on their heads. 

These children were none other than Shin and Miyu.

At the heart of the city stood a grand clock tower, its chimes echoing through the streets every hour—just like the one in Akuro. When the clock struck 9 PM, its deep, resonant toll rang out. 

The sound carried through the empty roads and shadowed alleyways, its melody soft and measured, like a gentle piano playing in the night.

Birds nestled in their perches, and stray dogs curled up in quiet corners, their eyes closing as they listened to the soothing chime. The sound drifted through the frozen air, reaching Shin's ears, stirring him from his sleep with a quiet warmth.

Shin woke up, rubbing his eyes before shaking off the snow that had gathered on his head. Thankfully, most of it had been blocked by the thick cloth.

This stolen cloth is better than I expected. I didn't even notice when I fell asleep, he thought, impressed by its warmth.

After brushing off the remaining snow, Shin turned to Miyu, who was curled up beside him, sleeping like a small, fragile bird. His gaze then shifted forward, toward the road ahead.

The street was lightly crowded with people, their footsteps crunching softly against the icy ground. There weren't many cars—just figures passing by, wrapped in layers of clothing to fight the cold.

As Shin took in the scene, his eyes gleamed like a cat's, reflecting the city lights. He felt a rush of excitement, but before he could dwell on it, his stomach let out a low growl, reminding him just how hungry he was.

But Shin wasn't looking at the crowd. His eyes were fixed on something beyond it—something on the other side of the road.

Despite the steady flow of people passing by, he could clearly see through the gaps between them.

He was staring at a bakery.

It looked expensive, far beyond anything he had ever stepped into. Large display windows made of pristine glass revealed the warm interior. Inside, the bakery glowed under the soft light of yellow lanterns, casting a cozy, inviting ambiance.

Shin couldn't feel the warmth himself, but he knew—it was there. The way the golden light bathed the walls, the gentle movements of people inside, the rhythmic opening and closing of the door—it all spoke of a place untouched by the harshness of the cold outside.

Well-dressed customers came and went, their coats lined with fur, their boots clicking against the polished floor. They stepped in from the winter air, welcomed by the warmth within, only to leave moments later, carrying neatly wrapped pastries in their gloved hands.

As Shin stared at the bakery, Miyu slowly stirred awake. She lifted her head groggily and mumbled, "Iss it time yerrr?" (Translation: Is it time yet?), her voice thick with sleep. Rubbing one eye with a small fist, she sounded just like a drowsy child.

Shin, his excitement barely contained, nodded twice in quick succession.

Then, he turned his attention back to the shop, and this time, Miyu joined him. The two of them sat in silence, patiently watching.

Before long, the bakery's door creaked open, and a man wearing a tall white chef's hat stepped outside. Instantly, both Shin and Miyu shifted their gazes toward him.

The man's uniform marked him as one of the bakery's chefs. But he looked really young—no older than nineteen.

In his hands, he carried a massive pot, its size so great that it nearly covered his chest. As he stepped forward, Shin caught a glimpse of its contents—discarded scraps, plastic, and bits of dirty food. It was all waste.

But there was something else in the chefs hand. Hanging from the side of the pot was a small plastic bag. Unlike the rest of the trash, this bag was clean. Inside, a dark, indistinct mass could be seen. It looked like garbage too—so why had the chef separated it?

The young man walked over to a trash bin tucked around the corner. With a single motion, he dumped the contents of the pot into the bin. Then, carefully, he set the plastic bag down on a clean spot beside it, deliberately keeping it away from the rest of the trash.

Without a word, he turned back toward the bakery. As he stepped inside, he reached for the small wooden sign hanging from the door handle and flipped it over.

"Open" became "Closed."

With that, the door shut behind him, leaving the quiet streets once more untouched.

As soon as the sign flipped, Shin and Miyu sprang to their feet, dashing toward the bakery. Their hurried steps left crisp footprints in the snow—imprints that would soon vanish beneath another layer of white.

Navigating through the bustling road wasn't easy. The crowd slowed them down, but they pushed through, determined. Eventually, they reached their destination.

Shin wasted no time. He grabbed the plastic bag the chef had set aside and bolted toward a nearby alleyway. Miyu followed close behind, both of them grinning with excitement.

After running a short distance, they finally stopped.

"Huff… huff… you know… you didn't have to run that fast," Miyu panted, catching her breath.

"Huff… huff… I know."

Shin collapsed onto the cold ground, and Miyu plopped down beside him. Between them sat the plastic bag.

Shin placed it on his lap, his small fingers trembling as he worked to untie it. His hands, dry and stiff from the biting cold, struggled against the knot. But despite the discomfort, he pressed on—because whatever was inside this bag was worth it.

Finally, Shin managed to loosen the knot and open the bag.

Inside, a pile of burnt bread pieces lay stacked together. Charred at the edges and rough in texture, they were barely edible—but to Shin and Miyu, they were a feast.

Their eyes lit up, stomachs growling in anticipation. The mere sight of food made their mouths water.

Without hesitation, they each grabbed a piece and took a bite. The taste was bitter, the texture dry, but none of that mattered.

For the first time in a long while, they could sit back, even if just for a moment, and enjoy something close to a real meal.

Shin's father had kicked his mother and sister out of the house right after his birth. He grew up never knowing the man's face. His mother, left with no choice, roamed the city every day, begging for food.

But even on the best days, what she managed to gather was never enough for the three of them. Hunger became a constant companion, an ache that never faded.

Before, they spent their days trying to quiet that pain—drinking water from the canal, scavenging through trash bins, anything to ease the gnawing emptiness in their stomachs.

Then, one night, everything changed.

Shin had been wandering the streets with his hollow stomach when he saw a young chef—barely nineteen—step out of a bakery. The chef carried a large pot of trash and, among the discarded waste, tossed several burnt pieces of bread into the bin.

Shin hesitated only for a moment before rushing forward. Digging through the filth, his hands trembling from both cold and desperation, he found the charred bread. It was rough, dry, barely edible—but when he took a bite, his eyes welled up with tears.

It was the best thing he had ever tasted.

From that day on, Shin returned every night at 9 p.m., waiting. And strangely, as if by some unspoken understanding, the chef continued to throw away burnt bread in the exact same spot, at the exact same time.

Shin always shared the bread with Myu and his mother.

Over time, the burnt pieces became less charred, more edible. Shin never knew why, but he didn't question it.

It had become a routine—one small moment of warmth in their otherwise harsh reality.