It's the morning of the Boy's thirteenth birthday when the Baker sees that the woods are receding. The crooked shadows of the trees have been pushed back, past the winding stream that trickles under the footbridge, weaving a boundary between the chaotic and the ordered, the woods and the village. His eyes take in the scattering of stumps, noticing them for the first time. In his mind he remembers when the butcher came last summer to cut trees for a new bedroom, the cobbler the year before that. It makes sense, but he hasn't seen it until now. Not like how he can see the overgrown garden next door over the low stone wall. The Witch's cottage is draped with vegetation; no one wants to live there.

He hovers at the kitchen window, one hand on the low sill, staring at the yet-formidable entrance of the woods, the cavernous darkness that leads into memories that are tangled and familiar and unwelcome. He senses that this day is significant, but the reasons are hazy, aside from the obvious – the Boy's birthday. The Baker knows that something is changing, but he doesn't know what. He feels like everything has already changed and there is nothing left. The Boy grows older year after year, and the others lie scattered, all except for Jack. The youth has stayed because he will not go far from his mother's grave, tenderly cared for through storm and sun.

It has been thirteen years since his wife died, disappeared from the woods by means that even the Baker does not know. There were no hints to guide him, no body to see, but he knows in his bones and heart that she is gone. He knew it then, when the Witch dragged Jack to the clearing, and he knows it now. The dull ache, half-buried, reemerges. His fingers curl themselves into fists against his sides, and his gaze is unseeing. He can only sort through the weave of his own emotions, picking apart the strands. He thinks that he loved her too late, even though she had been at his side for years. He thinks that she is still lost, even as she is dead, because he never managed to kiss her goodbye.

-------------------

He was wearing his apron when he met her for the first time, an apron that was yellowing along the ties and had flour crusted on it so thick that he thought that it had grown there. His hands were dusted with white too, and the powder was in his hair and on his face. He always had the taste of it in his mouth, like the smell of dough had perpetually been in his nose. He was fifteen, and his father had taken him to the city for the festival week. It was his third time going in three years, but the first that he had to man their rented room by himself. His father had gone off, saying he was going to sample the wares of the other bakers to see what new breads they had made, what new sweets they invented.

Three loaves of white bread please. And a gooseberry pie, if you have it.

She had a cloak on, a dark velvet blue that reminded him of the nighttime sky. Her face was shadowed by the hood, but he saw a loose curl of hair against her shoulder, and heard the sweet pitch of her voice. She wasn't poor. When he brought her the bread she pushed the hood back, showing the curves of her cheekbones, the pout of her lips, and the hazel-green eyes that smiled at him when she reached for her purse. And he thought that she was pretty, but not prettier than the wheelwright's youngest daughter. She paid for the pie and loaves with carefully counted coins, pushing them across the makeshift counter to his outstretched hand. She pinched the crust of the pie, tasted it.

She said, It's not as good as my father's.

Who's your father? He didn't mean to sound harsh, but the comment jerked him to attention.

She grinned at him, shook her head. Thank you.

Who's your father? he asked again.

She paused at the threshold of the entrance, the sunlight from outside the open door catching in her dark hair and finding the reddish strands that lay interwoven with the brown. She turned away from him, squinting into the street for a moment before looking back. He still had her coins pressed against his sweaty palm, sticky with flour. The three loaves peered out of her basket, covered by a scrap of cheesecloth. Her smile was luminous.

I'll see you next year, she told him. Goodbye.

-------------------

Afternoon finds the Baker behind the village church, stooped down in front of Jack's mother's headstone. Jack is arranging the flowers he's brought against the granite. He is no longer a boy, but the Baker still thinks of him as young. In truth they are all growing older. Jack fiddles with the spray of flowers. He's dressed in his good shirt, with the breeches that aren't stained by dirt, and the shoes that aren't scuffed at the toes. The Baker is oddly touched by this gesture; the two men are heading over to the cottage afterwards for the Boy's birthday supper. Jack confides that he has brought a present for the Boy, but he won't reveal its contents. Instead he smiles and rests his weight against the headstone.

"He's excited for you to come," the Baker says.

"I'm glad to come," Jack replies, quirking an eyebrow. "He's almost a man."

The Baker nods his reluctant agreement. Time has passed very quickly. "He baked rolls."

"By himself?" Jack seems to understand the meaning behind that statement.

"Without my interference, yes," the Baker says wryly. "I only hope that they are edible."

"The loss of a few teeth is no great sorrow," Jack grins. But he sobers quickly. "Are the others coming?"

It takes the Baker a moment to realize what Jack is speaking of. "Oh. No. He didn't want their company."

"He's known them since he was a babe. They come every year." Jack is startled.

"He claims that he wants them to see him when he is a man, since they are womenfolk. So not this year," the Baker explains. He doesn't quite understand the Boy's logic himself, but the desire is enough.

The sun is beginning to set on the horizon, dipping into the shadowy murk of the woods. To the Baker it looks like the leafy branches of the sinister trees at eating into the light, sucking it dry of warmth. He shivers involuntarily, thinking once again of his wife, her body long since decomposed into the earth of the woods. He doesn't like the idea that she has become part of those trees. Her place should be with them tonight, seated around the candlelit glow of the dinner, engaging the Boy in lively conversation and teasing. The Baker doesn't want to celebrate the Boy's thirteenth year of life; it's the thirteenth year without knowing his mother.

Jack gives the sun a quick glance and brushes off his hands against his breeches. There is a round bulge in one of the pockets, and the Baker suspects that it's hiding the Boy's present. The Baker straightens, his touch grazing the headstone with some reverence. The Boy will be waiting at home, with the table set, and jumpy with excitement. The Baker has already given his son his gift – a set of clothes that were purchased new at the market instead of the moth-eaten hand-me-downs that the Boy wore all through his childhood. Jack touches his fingers to his cap, bidding his mother a silent farewell, and follows the Baker out of the cemetery.

-------------------

They were married within six months, so her last words to him never actually came true. She was the daughter of a rival baker, and the marriage between the two sealed a partnership that the two older men needed to survive. He saw her again at their betrothal dinner, his eyes widening with surprise when he realized who she was. She gave him that smile again when he was seated across the table from her. His hands faltered, the cutlery falling from his fingers to clatter loud against his plate. She giggled and he blushed red to his ears and the engagement was sealed by an exchange of gold and two bottles of aged wine. He married her under the gaze of the village priest, kissing her hesitantly at the altar.

He carried her through the threshold of their cottage, built in joint effort by the men of the village. The women helped too, he supposed, since they mixed the mud that cemented the frame together. She was surprisingly light in his arms, for all the fabric that she was swathed in. His hand accidentally brushed her thigh and he flushed furiously, his cheeks blazing, and he murmured an apology before he deposited her on her feet. She swept her hair back with her long hands, giving him a one-shouldered shrug. Her attentions were fixed on the cottage, like he was simply an amenity that came with it. He was as the handsome oak table, the sturdy large bed, the carefully carved stools.

I've never done this before, he admitted in a slightly shaky tone when it came time for bed.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her head tilted to one side. She was plaiting her hair. You're not supposed to have.

Others have, he said.

Well I've never done it either. So it's mutual. She tied the braid with a piece of twine.

He shifted onto the bed, one knee nestling against the straw mattress. His other foot was still on the floor. He didn't know where to start. He kissed the miller's daughter by the stream once, some months back, but she had been flirty and fled after he had touched his mouth to hers. Now he was with his wife, his very own wife, and all lusty thoughts had fled his mind in face of the situation. He raised his eyes to her, fumbling to crawl further onto the bed. She watched him from what seemed like far away as she swung herself to face him.

Come here, she beckoned.

He obeyed. She took his face in her hands that somehow had warm palms and chilled fingertips and kissed him.

Let's start here, she said.

-------------------

The Boy wants to stay up later now that he's a man, but he falls asleep across his bed, limbs askew, right after Jack leaves the cottage. The combination of wine and excitement has made him tired. The Baker struggles with the sheets and the Boy, but manages to tuck him under a quilt after much effort. The Boy's fingers are clenched tight around Jack's present, a richly-designed pocket knife. Flowers curl around the handle, their petals shimmering gems. The Baker doesn't want to know how much it cost, but he allows the gift. Jack is an old friend, and he can afford frivolous spending. The Boy has never owned anything quite as exquisite as the knife and there is still delight left in his face while he slumbers.

The Baker clears the dishes from the table, placing the plates and cutlery into a bucket to soak before he scrubs the grime off. There are two rolls left. They will be stale in the morning, but the taste is good. Jack ate four of them, and pocketed six more to take home. The table is wiped down, the oak shining dully, and the Baker sits on his stool with a mug of spiced ale. Night is chilly, and there are cracks in the cottage walls. He wraps his aging hands around the mug, fitting palms to pewter, letting warmth soak into his skin. The view from the window is the same as the morning's, only this time it's the moonlight that casts its beacons over the receding woods.

If the Witch were still next door, he knows that he would have asked for his wife back long ago. But he supposes that even the Witch doesn't have the power to raise people from the dead. It's easier, after all, to create something entirely anew than to try to recreate something wonderful. It will never quite live up to expectations. Everything is changing around him anyway. The Boy is growing up, the village is expanding, the woods are withdrawing their roots. He traces the grains in the table, running a finger along the fine lines. Everything will be different. He thinks about the woods again, thinks about the trees that have witnessed more than they should. Each image is imprinted in his mind, clear like the surface of still water, so that they still bring with them their own laughter, their own tears.

He stands, pushing the stool back against the floor, the mug of ale still cupped in his hands. He misses her, he knows, but there is nothing he can do to change it. He can only look forward and raise the Boy, tell the Boy the story about the woods. The Baker can wish and he can hope, but in the end, there is only the inevitable future. He looks at the Boy, sleeping peacefully in his bed. His brow is smooth, devoid of cares. The Baker goes to him. He rests one hand across the Boy's head, gently stroking the curls that are hers and his, all bundled together in their son. He thinks that maybe he understands, but even if he doesn't understand, he will someday.

The Boy sighs.

And it's time to leave the woods.