At exactly 4 o'clock in the afternoon, Rafael locked the door and shuttered the bakery. He had the last of the bread in his arms, two baguettes and one round sourdough, all of the regular variety. He scouted, as he always did, half in and half out of the real world, as he made his way up the street and around the corner to the homeless shelter.
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People were piled high with trash on the ground and sidewalks, mouldering and rotting as their life fell apart. Until the scheduled hour, when meals, mattresses, and blankets were distributed until none remained, the barred gate prevented them from entering their makeshift haven.
The demons, the appetite for evil, reclined with their human companions, either atop their shoulders, close to them in quiet rest like a mother and child, or with their backs fiercely turned, as if they were trying to flee.
But the day had consumed all of Rafael's charm. Never enough was available.
Rafael buzzed the gate's intercom, heard a weary voice ask him a question, and instead of answering with his name, he gave it. Without even trying to unlock the gate, one of the cooks came out to greet him, take his bread, and wish him a happy evening.
He strolled home along 2nd Avenue.
As he passed the Catholic Church of Christ Our Hope, he noticed a man sitting on the stairs, staring at his feet and drawing thoughtfully on a lit cigarette while appearing confused. He had no demons, which was so unusual that Rafael froze and gaped. Are you in need of anything, he inquired?
The man pondered the query with more seriousness than even Rafael had intended, exhaling a slow cloud of smoke. More of everything, but primarily hope, compassion, and grace, he said. Rafael noticed the white and black collar of his trade in faith as he raised his head to speak. As a result, when carrying out the necessary tasks, I don't feel empty.
Rafael nodded, but he didn't say anything. He continued by strolling home, where he ate, slept, and then awakened in the dead of night to return to the bakery.
While ignoring his fingers, which were already twitching with the magic of the day, he built a fire in the ancient cavern of the brick oven and loaded the pristine stainless electric mixers with flour, salt, water, and yeast. He worked the doughs—sweet for cinnamon rolls, dark rye, sourdough, and the most basic French dough for baguettes—before shaping them. all of the common variety.
A lidded pottery pot with fine lines of age and wear from many hands stood in the corner perched on a dilapidated wooden work table, waiting.
The temperature in the kitchen climbed to its highest point, the regular doughs puffed up to ready, and the restrained magic in him became more demanding. But he was hesitant.
He exited the building into the gloomy, chilly pre-dawn, wiping flour from his hands with his apron as he felt the sweat evaporating from his back beneath his white t-shirt.
A policeman violently kicked a pile of rags that was dozing in a doorway across the alley. The horror that was the demon riding on the officer's back wrapped itself about her like a robe.
The infant in the apartment next door screamed. Rafael looked up and saw the mother of the child on the fire escape, her hands gripping the railing with clenched teeth. Rafael had observed the three sewn to the child's back, waiting to be fed as the infant grew, albeit the woman's demon was a weak, starving creature. There were too many people who required assistance. Magic is never enough.
Turning away from them, he went back inside and filled his ancient, cracked bowl with flour and salt. Just enough for one loaf.
He grabbed the crock, opened it, and scooped out a small amount of the sticky, soft liquid while smelling the yeast's ancient, primal, and soothing scent, which was tinged with the strong sourness of fermentation in the earth and the tang of spells.
He filled the bowl with both this and water. The dough formed wet, sucking globs that adhered to his fingertips before gradually ruffling up and becoming as soft as feathers and slipping between his fingers.
His magic was ever-present, unseen, and undetectable until it accumulated within him, much like the wild yeasts that white-washed the grapes that had produced this sourdough starter long ago.
After feeling the dough come alive with the wild yeasts and the wild magic, he let it flow from him and squeezed it into the dough with the starting. He could feel the dough stretch, collapse, and shift as a result of his touch. He moulded it into a long baguette after kneading it and loving it until it seemed ready in his hands. All the magic of the day is contained in one loaf.
While he waited for the bread to bake, he swept the floor and cleaned the tall wooden shelves. Customers were drawn in by the aroma of the toasting bread wafting into the street.
Even though it was too early according to the clock, he opened the doors as the line got long and served his clients all day long by exchanging bread for money. On the shelf, the single loaf was by itself.
At exactly 4 o'clock, he locked the door and closed the business. He had the final loaf nestled in his arm. He skipped the homeless shelter. He made his way to the church along 2nd Avenue. As before, the priest was present, his fingers carelessly holding another cigarette.
Rafael handed the baguette to the priest while holding it in his arms like a priceless object. No one else, he said, "this is for you."
He responded, "There are some who are starving. You should give it to them. He didn't try to grab it.
I created this for you.
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He was greeted in the priest's eyes as he gazed at him. Rafael may have had just enough remaining strength for the priest to comprehend and agree. He accepted the bread.
The magic only lasted for a month or possibly two. However, the priest's never-ending toil would appear simpler and more encouraging at that time. Never enough was available. But some always existed.