Madison Esshaki

The night is cold, and my hands are like ice. Still, I tighten my grip on the loaf of bread in my hand.

One look over my shoulder, and I see the cops running.

Still after me.

I slide on my bare feet across the icy road, ignoring the ache in my heels as I struggle to catch my breath.

“Get back here, boy!” an officer yells. 

No. I’m going to eat tonight.

I run faster, frantically scanning my sight for refuge. There, like a beacon ahead of me, I see the crucifix amidst the snow.

St. John’s.

“Stop him!” someone commands, and with a gasp I sprint towards the church steps.

My heart pounds. My chest burns.

My feet slip.

I fall, hard against the concrete, and curse. My head pounds as the loaf slips through my fingers and down the street.

“No!” I yell, forcing myself up.

The cops turn the corner.

There’s no time.

I hurry up the stairs and through the cathedral entrance. Slamming the oak doors shut, I lean my ear against the wood.

My heart races.

“Let him be,” A deep voice says. “We’ve got the bread. He’s not worth our time.”
I listen as a corral of footsteps scurry away.

My stomach growls as I let out a shaky, angry breath.

I was so close.

Clumsily, I make my way to a nearby desk of candles. If I can’t have food, at least I can be warm.

A choir’s soulful, unified voice echoes in a nearby room as I warm my fingers by the collection of tiny flames. I glance up to the ceiling of stained glass–at the story of the Lord that they tell—and from the bottom of my heart I say a desperate prayer.

Heart pounding and head resting against the cathedral wall, I slowly fall asleep.

—

“Are you lost, little boy?”

The words jerk me awake, and I stumble into the candle desk with a gasp. Everything is dark.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the gentle voice says. From the darkness a match is stricken, and frail fingers light one of the candles.

Golden light spreads, illuminating the figure in front of me. A hunched over, homely old woman, dressed in colorful scarves and a bold, knitted hat. She stares at me, concern in her dark eyes.

“You must be starving,” she says. “My name is Atha.”

The woman offers me a hand, but I hesitate. 

She persists. “I know a place where you can eat.”

Maybe it’s her warm smile, or the ache in my empty stomach, but eventually I take her hand.

The old woman leads me out the cathedral doors, and wraps one of her scarves around my shoulders. I swallow hard. It’s been years since anyone treated me with such care.

Down the icy streets we walk, as the sun slowly rises.

“What’s your name, young one?” Atha asks.

I pause a moment before answering. “Leo.”

The woman smiles, and I notice the dimples in her wrinkled cheeks. “That fits you well,” she says. “Strong, like a lion.”

I almost scoff.

The last thing I feel with this hunger in my bones is strong.

One step at a time, we make our way through the city. Both of us slow, both of us exhausted.

It seems like ages pass before Atha suddenly stops.

Just ahead, huddled in the cold, are two boys. They look around my age, coughing and shivering in the wind.
Hungry.
Weak.

Time seems to still as the boys’ eyes meet ours.

With a frown, Atha unravels two scarves from her neck and places them near the boy’s feet.

With trembling voices and glassy eyes they thank her, and we continue on.

“I wish I could help them all,” Atha says somberly, before turning back to me with a small smile. “But one at a time, eh?”

Eventually, we reach Atha’s destination.
A small, hidden building, with an old painted sign on the lawn portraying the image of a cake.

A bakery.

Atha opens the door, and with deliberate steps, I follow her.

Instantly, I am hit with immaculate scents.

Sugar, butter, and warm bread. 

Rows upon rows of steaming treats line the bakery walls, and my mouth begins to water.

Atha walks behind the counter and pulls out a large basket. With a smile she begins filling it with a handful of golden-brown rolls.

My stomach growls.

“For you,” she says, handing me the basket. “But don’t eat just yet.”

It takes all my willpower to obey.

Atha reaches across the counter and retrieves a small item that resembles a salt shaker. As she dusts the top of the rolls with its contents, a spicy aroma fills the air.

“A mix of cinnamon, ginger and cloves,” she says. “For extra warmth.”

In an instant, I have devoured every roll. My fingers are stained the color of pumpkins, and I suck the spices from them.

Atha laughs, and a moment later, a man walks through the door.

“Go, little lion. I must get to work,” she whispers. “Come back tomorrow for more.”

I thank the woman and leave, still carrying the basket and licking it free of any precious crumbs.

I visit Atha the next day.

And the day after that.

Our meetings become a tradition.

Every morning, I make my way to the bakery, where Atha meets me with a smile and a full basket. She feeds me her warm rolls, dusted with spices, and I devour them.

Slowly, the meat returns to my bones. I sleep with a full belly, and I begin to feel like the lion of my name.

Weeks pass. Then months. Winter turns to spring, and spring to summer. 

I spend every morning at Atha’s bakery.

She stuffs me with spiced bread and cold drinks, and dresses me in colored scarves.

Our friendship grows. 

She shows me her way of life, teaches me to laugh again.

In turn, she earns my trust.

Summer eventually turns cold, and when autumn becomes winter again, I find a job as a merchant’s apprentice.

Work becomes my everything.

From dawn to dusk, it’s all I do.

Money fills my pockets. I buy fresh new clothes that aren’t colored scarves, and eat food other than sweet rolls.

I don’t visit Atha every day. 

I don’t need to anymore.

But I still make time for her often.

Every time I visit, she gives me a basket of pumpkin bread. I walk with her to St. John’s every Sunday, and we pray together.

Though Atha becomes weaker, her smile never fades.

One winter’s night, after closing up the merchant’s shop, I make my way to her bakery.

I knock on the door. 

I knock again.

Lights go out from the inside, and no one comes to let me in.

There is no dimpled smile waiting for me, no basket of pumpkin bread.

Heart pounding, I go home.

I try again the next morning.

The air is cold, and my hands are like ice as I knock.

Still, as the door creaks open, I hope to see a familiar smiling face.

Instead, the baker answers, his face dark.

“Where’s Atha?” I ask, eager.

The baker’s voice trembles as he responds. “She’s gone, son.”
My heart drops.

“Gone?”

“Died peacefully in her sleep,” he says.

I run my hands through my hair, struggling to catch my breath.

No. She can’t be gone.
She was my only friend.

“Leo, isn’t it?” the man asks, and it takes all my strength to nod. “Atha left you this.”

He reaches over and hands me a basket, overflowing with warm, spiced rolls.

I feel sick.

Snatching the basket, I run, tears flowing from my eyes. I slide down the icy roads, headed to St. John’s.

I come to a halt once I reach the church steps.

There, huddled and shivering in the cold, lies a little girl.

Hungry.
Weak.

Like a sudden siren in my mind, I remember Atha’s words.

I wish I could help them all.

I bring my gaze from the rolls in my hand to the girl.

But one at a time, eh?

I let out a shaky breath.

“You must be starving,” I say, placing the basket near the child’s feet.

The girl doesn’t answer, but stares at me with wide, skeptical eyes.

“For you,” I assure.

With this, she shoves a fistful of bread in her mouth. I let out a broken laugh, and when I do, something in my heart defrosts.

This is what she’d want, I realize.

Immediately, I get to work.

With my money from the merchant, I buy five more baskets of bread. The rest of the day I spend passing out food, and watching children lick their fingers free of spice.

This becomes a tradition.
Every night I work my shift, and every day I pass out bread. Eventually, the children grow up. They get stronger. 

They survive. 

Atha taught me a lot of things.

She taught me to laugh, and to trust again. It’s because of her that I’m alive today.

But above all else, Atha taught me to care.

She taught me that one act of kindness is enough to warm a million frozen hearts. 

To feed a million souls.