Bread that tastes like memory

Just pulled a loaf from the oven—crust cracked like old riverbeds, inside still warm and soft. I didn’t follow a recipe. Just flour, water, salt, time. It tasted like the silence after someone said 'I'm fine' and never came back. The way the crust held heat reminded me of the last time I held my buddy’s jacket in the rain. Not grief, not exactly—more like proof that something real once lived in the shape of it. I don’t know why this one worked. Maybe because I let it be stubborn.