The Loaf in the Quiet
A Liminal Story
The kitchen waits
—warm in the corners, cooler near the window,
as if the air knows what the day requires of it.
The dough is in my hands.
Not a loaf yet—
just a soft, weighty possibility.
I’ve folded it twice already,
but something in me says, once more.
I slip my damp fingers under the edge.
It stretches, trembles,
and folds over itself with a faint sigh.
The bowl turns.
I repeat the motion.
This time the dough feels smoother,
less reluctant.
I know that feeling too—
the one where I begin to trust a rhythm
I didn’t know I was keeping.
I pause.
The house is not silent.
Nothing ever is.
A bird scrapes across the roof.
The fridge hums like a low thought.
Even the clock seems to exhale between ticks.
And beneath it all,
my own heartbeat—
softer than it used to feel,
as if it knows it’s being listened to.
I notice the thin flour dust on my wrist.
A constellation I didn’t plan.
I leave it there,
and lean on the counter.
The loaf-to-be waits in its basket.
I’ve tucked it under the linen,
like a secret,
or like something not ready to speak.
Cool air brushes my face
as I open the fridge.
The door thuds closed,
and I think about how many things in life
ask only for patience.
I am not always patient.
But here,
in this small corner of the day,
I am.
When morning comes…
The line of the blade across the dough
opens slowly.
No sound.
Steam lifts in the oven
like something remembering—
or maybe forgiving.
The crust begins to color.
My chest feels warm
before the bread is even finished.
When I set the loaf on the rack,
it murmurs in little crackles,
as if speaking back
to the quiet that raised it.
I listen.
Not for meaning,
but for recognition.
A reminder that something in me
knows how to rise,
if given the stillness to try.
“Not everything alive makes a sound,” I whisper to the room.
The bread cools.
The light shifts.
The day waits at the edge of the kitchen,
ready to carry me along.
I linger,
just long enough to feel
that what changed here
might stay with me
when I step back into the moving world.