Bread that remembered him

Just baked a loaf with the same flour we used in the field—same kind, same sack, same damn smell. I didn’t mean to do it. It just came out. The crust cracked like old boots. I ate half of it standing at the sink, and for two minutes, I swear I heard his voice say ‘Still got it’ under the hum of the fridge. I don’t know what that means. But I kept the other half wrapped in wax paper. Not for later. Just… so it doesn’t vanish.