The Golden Spoon -

He turned to leave, but the fog had crept under the door and filled the bakery like a sleeping breath. The windows were gone. The walls were gone. Silas found himself standing not in the bakery but in a long, narrow corridor made of bone-white wood, lit by candles that burned without smoke. At the far end sat a table. On the table, a single bowl of cold stew. And in Silas’s hand, the golden spoon.

Silas laughed—a shrill, broken sound. “I don’t believe in curses. I believe in gold.” The Golden Spoon

He lifted the spoon again. The stew had not diminished. He fed the shadow-child. One spoonful. Two. Ten. The shadow drank the stew, and for a moment, its eyes flickered with something like warmth. Then another shadow appeared. And another. Soon the corridor was filled with them—hundreds, thousands, all the hungry that Silas had never seen, all the empty bellies his gold had never filled. He turned to leave, but the fog had