“You won’t miss them at first. Just little gaps. Then you’ll notice your daughter’s recital was on a Wednesday. Your mother’s funeral, a Thursday. The wedding, a Monday. Tuesdays become wrong. Empty. And one night, you’ll wake up holding a serrated knife, standing over your own bed.”
He held up a single die. Not bone. Not plastic. Kneaded. Faces shifting like rising sourdough. demon deals breadman games
“Second loaf,” he’d murmur to the gamblers, “keeps the sheriff blind.” And it did. Until the gambler’s own reflection started dealing from the other side of the mirror. “You won’t miss them at first
I rolled the die.
Then he reached into his apron and handed me a warm, golden loaf. Inside the crust, something beat like a second heart. a Thursday. The wedding