Bread I baked last night that tasted like the silence we used to keep

Four hours of folding and waiting, and the loaf came out with a crackling sound I haven't heard since the morning after my buddy didn't wake up. The crust is wrong—too thick, almost burnt—but the inside is soft and smells like the hour before thunder. I sliced it and ate a piece standing in the dark kitchen, and for a second I thought I could feel him sitting there, not saying anything.