Bread soon realized his dream wasn’t to escape.

No, it wasn’t something so simple. He just wanted to belong—to be needed, to fit in. His dream was to find a home where he could eat, laugh, and be free. It wasn’t just to fly. It wasn’t just to leave this room.

But was he free now? Was he finally happy? Satisfied? Surely, he was. He had family now—a dad. He had a place he could belong. Wasn’t that what it meant to fulfill his dream to fly?

After all, Dad wasn’t scary.

He was just trying to help—to let him figure out what it meant to feel, to be alive. It was to help him find his purpose. He’s just trying to help me grow. Like a parent. He’s just trying to save me from the outside. From all those menacing goons who found it funny to kick him when he was down. From the snow, the pain, fear, all the confusions of being born with a conscience. Dad was his hero, his soaring bird in the sky, a helping hand floating beyond the clouds. He was his hope. Like Valkyrie…

Bread would do his best to do his part. He would show Dad the fruits of his labor, his immense growth and understanding of emotion. He would show him everything, he would question everything, and he would solve all there was to know about the world and its secrets—not just from his inner records but everything. He would prove to Dad—

He would be the best son there ever was.

And as if on cue, Dad entered. Instead of the usual trays, today, he brought in an entire cart full of them, all covered with round, circular lids. He looked a little tired but otherwise, the same as before.

“Dad!”

“What—oh, right.” Dad let out a sigh. “Yesterday…” He looked a little pale.

“Are you okay, Dad?”

“Stop—I mean, yes. I’m fine.” He looked away quickly. “Let’s just continue with what needs to be done.”

Bread thought it was kind of weird. It looked as if Dad was intentionally avoiding any eye contact. Maybe he was imagining things? Surely it wouldn’t be too improbable to believe that his inner records may have even jumbled up parts of his occipital lobe. But whatever the case, it wasn’t much of a big deal. He was ready! Whatever he had to do, he would do well. Anything to prove that he was learning!

“It’s time I test your olfactory and glossa—whatever.” Dad continued, “Let’s just get this over with. I can’t believe I forgot to test these before.” He pulled out a tray and placed it in front of Bread. “What do you smell?”

“Smell?”

He nodded. “Smell it.”

Bread leaned in a little closer and took a whiff. It was… aromatic. Herbal? Flowery? No, it smelled sweeter. Common sense told him so. It was sort of a… citrusy smell? “Lemon?” he answered.

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

“Close.” Dad smirked. He pulled off the lid. “Orange. Good.” He placed the tray back on the cart and took out another one. “Try smelling this one.”

Bread leaned in and sniffed the air. This time, it had a slight sharpness to it. He scrunched his nose. Was this something that would be considered stinky? Or was it supposed to smell sour? It smelled like… “Is it eggs?”

“Hydrogen sulfide.” He nodded. Then he opened the lid. “A commonly known chemical to produce a scent closely resembling the smell of rotten eggs.” His smile grew just a bit more. “Not bad. You’re doing good.”

Dad complimented me. His stomach fluttered, churning like deep, ocean waves; his breathing stopped momentarily. He complimented me… It was unlike any other. Warmth filled his chest like a balloon. It spread throughout his body, up his shoulders, all throughout his jaw and cheeks.

Then it was gone.

But the feeling was cemented into memory. It wasn’t fear; it wasn’t any sign of danger. It just felt so… addicting. He wanted more. He wanted that fuzzy feeling, that tickling and fluttering sensation. He wanted it so much. Was this what it felt like to have a dad? To belong? If so, he was going to question everything. He was going to understand everything just to get another taste…

“Right,” Dad said with a bit more enthusiasm. “How about we try some food?” He reached into the clutter of plates and pulled out a third tray. “Just to make sure everything’s working.” He opened the lid. There was a bowl of murky substance placed in the center of the tray, sloshing slight ripples on the surface.

Soup? It seemed creamy. Bread sifted through his records. From the appearance, it could’ve been gnocchi soup. But there wasn’t any gnocchi in sight. It could’ve been creamy tomato soup. No, that wasn’t it either. It wasn’t red. Could it be clam chowder? Or cream of mushroom?

“Last one,” Dad interrupted. “Tell me what it tastes like. Anything will do.” He held out a metal spoon for him to use.

Bread nodded. It didn’t matter what it was. He was going to describe it with all his might no matter the cost. He was going to prove to him how useful he was. He grabbed the spoon from Dad’s hand, ready for whatever difficulty lay ahead. He was ready—

Until sparks flew.

“Static electricity,” Dad replied. He shook his hands off as if to get rid of the numbness. “No need to worry. Ignore it.”

But Bread felt a sudden surge of emotions. He couldn’t tell what they were, but one feeling stood out from the rest. He could feel tears welling up, a sudden downpour of something unhappy. Something sad, miserable. He hated it. It hurt so much… But whatever it was, it was fleeting—gone in an instant.

Like what Dad had said, Bread decided to ignore it. Surely, it wasn’t more important than the soup. He leaned in a little closer and slurped. And with it, a jumbled concoction of flavors—something sweet, creamy. Like milk and honey. And onions? Carrots? Or was it something else? But the overpowering taste was…

“Sad?”

“What was that?”

“It tastes… sad.” He didn’t understand why. It was like the feelings were coming from the soup? He didn’t get it at all.

“Really?” Dad gazed back at the bowl. His expression was softer than usual. Almost like he knew why the soup tasted so sad. “Perhaps it has something to do with her…”

“Her?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Dad tried his best to smile but to no avail. Bread could feel the slight trembling building up in his voice. “Creamy cabbage soup…” he trailed off. “Her favorite.” Then he changed the subject. “We’re done here. You’ve done well so far.” He started packing everything away.

“Dad?”

“Not now, Bread.” He headed out again. “Perhaps later.”

And as the door closed shut, Bread couldn’t help but wonder whether or not Dad was actually happy with his performance. He’d tried his best; he’d given it his all. But maybe that just wasn’t enough.