Wolthrope’s dusk draped the streets in a mournful haze as Eleanor limped from the tenement, her shawl a tattered veil against the wind’s bite. Thornfield’s rejection echoed in her bones—her cough a jagged hymn, her hands empty of sixpence—and hunger had sharpened Eldric’s cheeks to blades, his bird still by the hearth. Margaret’s murmurs and Henry’s wheeze haunted her, a chorus of want she could not silence. She clutched James’s coat, its wool threadbare, and turned toward the bakery, its glow a cruel beacon.

  The shop hummed with warmth, the scent of yeast and crust piercing her hollow core. Loaves gleamed behind the counter, brown and plump, and her stomach twisted—a thief’s urge rising where pride once stood. The baker turned, his back broad, and she moved swift, slipping a loaf beneath her shawl, her heart a drumbeat of shame. She fled, the bell’s chime a knell, but a shout—“Stop, you!”—chased her into the mire. The crowd jeered, eyes hard, and she clutched her prize, her breath a sob.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Home, she sank by the hearth, the loaf’s weight a sin in her lap. Eldric crawled near, his hazel gaze piercing. “Did you eat, Mama?” he asked, and she forced a smile, tearing the bread. “Plenty,” she lied, her voice a fracture, and he clung to her, his small arms a balm she scarce deserved. Margaret rocked, “Bread’s warm,” a rare truth, and Henry’s fingers twitched, reaching for a crumb. She fed them, her own hunger a silent ache, and watched their frail mouths move—life, for a moment, snatched from ruin.

  The candle flickered, its wax pooling like her guilt, and she buried her face in James’s coat. This bread, stolen in shame, was no victory—only a pause, a mother’s crime against the starvation creeping closer. Wolthrope’s mills thrummed beyond the panes, indifferent, and she felt their shadow deepen. She’d fallen—worker to thief—and feared the cost would soon claim more than her soul.