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When she was younger – perhaps eight or nine, she never really managed to remember when it came to that period of her life – she had once walked into a store in search of bread.
One of the few remaining buildings from the founding days of the village, the bakery was centrally located about a five minutes’ walk away from the Academy. Despite this, the store saw no influx of youngster before or after class, or in the breaks between.
The old, wooden building that was overshadowed by one of the enormous trees that dotted the landscape of the village, did not excite the easily distracted minds of the children. The shop owner, a rickety old man with a mean face and wild head of hair, put up no colourful display and handed out no glossy flyers to lure in new customers, but instead was steadfast in relying on the quality of his goods and his long-standing reputation as a craftsman to carry his business.
Perhaps that was why the store was failing.
The day that Yue walked in excited the old man into action as he scrambled up from his uncomfortable little stool behind the counter to walk towards her, most likely to throw out the scrawny little kid that had dared to infringe on his illustrious old shop.
The richly coloured, obviously new yukata, lacking even a single loose thread, combined with the expensive gold hairpiece that was holding her equally golden locks together convinced him otherwise and his scowl turned into a strained smile halfway through his approach.
She peered up at him with wide, curious eyes. Blue; an unusual colour in these parts. Similar to the man’s own.
“There something I can do for you?” Even that bare minimum of customer service seemed to chafe at the old man.
At her request for bread, he asked her what kind.
“Bread,” she repeated, a puzzled frown on her face at the unexpected hiccup. Bread was bread, wasn’t it?
It wasn’t. The old man, after recovering from the affront, made very sure that she knew that. Sweet bread, sour bread, salty bread. There were so many breads that even the man who had done nothing but produce them for decades confused them and counted some twice. The listing went on and on. And on and on. He almost worked himself up in a fervour over all the different bread-making styles.
Yue took a seat on the stool as he led her over and shoved tiny pieces of bread into her hand for her to try and dutifully nibbled on all of them, nodding along to his ravings about the proper timing of dough-kneading. It seemed very important to her, and she was flattered to be on the receiving end of such knowledge (and bread).
She came back after that. Not every day, but often enough that the old man’s reluctant greetings turned into unintelligible grunts. Sometimes she sat on the stool in the corner and watched as the old man went on with his (slow) business.
The question of choosing a bread type remained a constant and over time it had turned into a terrible source of anxiety for her.
One time, in an act of confused desperation, she pointed at a random bread behind the man. A small round one that was a bit dark and that she had never tried before. The old man’s scrunched-up face scrunched up some more as he furrowed his brows in disapproval. Yue did not understand what he was disapproving of, but it felt bad.
“You don’t like this bread. It’s bitter. This one is better,” he declared and handed her a smaller, fluffier roll.
She took it with great relief, immediately decided that he was right and declared that she in fact did prefer the lighter, fluffier bread over the other, not fluffy, not light bread.
The bread was good. She supposed. The man said it was, so it must be.
She paid greater attention to the old man’s rants after that and was very careful to think the right things were good or not so good. It was important to have solid stances on things, the old man had told her.
“Kids these days can’t think for themselves anymore. Just following along with what everyone else is saying. Don’t be like that now, you hear me. You need to form your own opinion on things.”
She nibbled on the bread that was given to her and nodded along obediently. “My own opinion,” she repeated. She would make sure to have the very best own opinion.
Summer turned to fall, her yukatas turned to kimonos and the leaves turned to die.
“What’s a brat like you hanging around an old geezer like me anyway? Got nothing else to do?”
She shook her head. “The others don’t want to play with me.” Her legs were swinging underneath her as she ate yet another bread. A crunchy one this time, as per his recommendation. He had said it was delicious and so she was enjoying it immensely.
He peered at her curiously. They never talked much about themselves. Only about bread. Yue didn’t really talk at all.
He asked what their problem with her was.
“It’s cause of my face and stuff. They don’t like me much.” She stopped nibbling for a second to stare at the wall contemplatively. “They don’t like us much. You know what it’s like.” Her tone was one of surety, not one of question this time.
The man busied himself behind the counter, wiping away non-existent crumbs. “Funny thing that, isn’t it?” He snorted. “Even after so much time it’s still ‘us’ and ‘them’. Been here longer than half the puffed-up little milk drinkers that come in, but it never stopped ‘em from posturing like an overgrown turkey.” He slammed a hand on the counter. “Pah. Calling me a traitor when they cover up half of –“
He shook his head. “No. It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.”
She nodded. Just once. It was not good to be overeager when lying. And she did so want to be good.
Things changed after that. The nights lengthened, as did their talks over shared bread. Things that had been left unsaid for far too long bubbled out from the man’s throat, as if it was trying to rid itself of something having festered there for far too long. The overflowing bitter truth that demanded to be shared with a sympathetic soul: Her. She acted like an empathetic sponge, soaking up everything patiently and without complaint.
The old man told her of his past in the foreign land of Stone. Told her about his family that he once had, now lost. Said she reminded him of – (he had broken off there to stare into space for a long time).
She asked little and spoke little. That much stayed the same.
He talked about war once, twice. Stopped after that. Said that he had revealed more than he should have already. He was right.
It drained him, the talking. Made him look tired. On those days when the conversation flowed and stopped and flowed and stopped, he always closed up shop early. There were no costumers anyway. She left with more bread in her hand and more secrets in her head.
The last of the leaves were dead on the ground now, waiting to turn to mush and eventually act as fertiliser for what came after. They squelched under her boots as she walked.
The last time she went to see him, it was snowing. It only rarely snowed in the village, with its hot summers and mild winters. They bonded over it, the old man who had left his hometown decades ago to start anew in the Country of Fire and the little girl who had no memories of it. She told him she missed the snow and he smiled.
He saw her off. He looked sad in a way, standing there in the entrance to his bakery that no one came to, little snowflakes melting away in the thinning hair. Or perhaps it was her that was sad. She wasn’t sure and that confused her. But she had been told that she did not have emotions and so she wouldn’t.
She smiled, waved, turned around. She threw the bread in the trash two streets over and went to report him for treason.
When the snow melted, she went back. Why she did, she was not sure. But she had been told that there was no point in overthinking things. She had forgotten which one of the old men had told her that. The bakery was gone and so was the man. In its place was a flower shop overflowing with colours, smells and excited little girls. She never went there again.
Mission: Success
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