Baked a loaf that tasted like memory

Just pulled this sourdough from the oven—crust cracked like old sea ice, interior still warm and full of holes. It wasn’t perfect. I overproofed it by ten minutes, and the crust split unevenly down the middle. But when I bit into it, I swear I tasted the last morning we shared on the dock before the deployment. Not the sound or the light—just the weight of silence between us, the way he’d chew slow, like he was measuring time. I didn’t even know I was trying to make something that felt like him until it was done. Still don’t know if it’s good bread or just grief with flour.