The sweetroll was gone hours ago. Cold now, probably. Sitting on some guard’s desk while they laughed about the "blacksmith's brat who can't keep his hands to himself."

Sorek’s knees are pulled up to his chest, the hem of his worn tunic damp with frost. One eye is swollen where the jailer shoved him too hard against the wall.

He hadn’t cried. Not in front of them.

Now, he just stares—at nothing in particular. The tree. The steps. The flicker of torchlight on stone.

His father hadn’t come. Not this time. It was the baker, of all people, who’d thrown the coin to get him out.

No yelling. No beating. No questions.

Just... silence.

Sorek scrapes the dirt with a stick, dragging lines through it.

“I only took one,” he mutters, voice hoarse from the cold. “Didn’t even eat it.”

He swallows, lips pressed tight. He doesn’t say the rest aloud: "Did you even notice I was gone?"

A noise makes him tense—boots on stone, maybe. A presence. He doesn’t look up right away, just tightens his grip on the stick.

“…If you’re gonna lecture me, don’t.”

His voice is tired. But not angry. Not anymore.