Tudor rose on a palm

The oven was already hot when I came down, so I started the rye without you again. Father's brass stamp still hangs on its nail above the flour bins, the rose cut into its face with five petals and a dot at the heart. He pressed it into every cob that left Calder Street, and half the street could tell his bread from the crust alone.

The stamp went missing the week after the funeral. I turned the shop over twice, and Mrs Achterberg from the chandlers swore she had seen a lad in a wet coat loitering by our back step. I did not say your name out loud, though I thought it plenty. I told myself I would hold my temper until I had proof.

This morning there was a parcel on the step, wrapped in a clean flour sack and tied with string. Inside was a single cob, the crust pressed with the rose, the petals crisp and even, the dot sitting dead centre. Folded small beneath it was the stamp itself, with a new bead of solder across the back where the handle had snapped. No note. I did not need one. You always did sign your work with a strip of string.

The dough is proving in the back now and the light is coming grey over the canal. Come home when the ship is in. I will leave the nail empty for you until you do.

Your sister, Ada