The poppy roll steamed in the chill winter air as the baker handed it to Ellis. Burning-hot crust smarted against her fingers. Her coin disappeared in the baker’s pocket, and she juggled the treat from hand to hand as she turned from the market stall.

Shouldering her way through the crowd, Ellis found an empty bench along the ice-packed path. She sat, balancing the roll on her knee, and pulled back the paper wrapping.

Steam blossomed into her face, scented with sugar and a hint of cinnamon. The poppy seeds glinted black along the seam of the roll, gathered like night at the center of the spiral. With practiced fingers, Ellis found the outer rim of the spiral and began to unwind the roll, just as she had from childhood.

The first bite melted on her tongue, fresh as the color of a spring morning. The flavor fluttered, a butterfly in her mouth, nearly as hard to catch as the memory of iridescent wings cradled in a cage of her father’s fingers.

She twisted off a second piece, hot as summer. Seeds stuck to her teeth like beetles, and she licked them off her sticky fingers.

The next bite, though, brought the crunch of a misplaced walnut. Ellis swiped at the shards of unwelcome flavor from her tongue. It lingered, bitter as the smell of her step-mother’s perfume on rainy autumn days. In her haste, the poppy roll teetered on her kneecap.

She lunged, but too late. The pastry plummeted to the icy ground, bouncing twice before rolling to a stop between Ellis’s feet.

With her thumb and forefinger, Ellis picked it up. Only one bite was left, the center swirl dark as night with poppy seeds. Bits of earth and ice glittered on the edge, and Ellis brushed at them with her free hand.

A quick glance proved no one was watching. With a shrug, Ellis slid the last bite into her mouth. It was gritty as fireplace ash. Ice crackled cold between her teeth, and she forced herself to swallow. It tickled her throat all the way down and followed with a dry cough that left her breath raspy.

Ellis sighed and crumpled the paper. What a waste of coin. Winter nipped at her fingers, but when she reached for her gloves, sugary stickiness pulled at the creases of her skin.

A smile stretched over her face. No one was watching. She sucked at her fingers one by one, letting the tang of sugar pucker her mouth.

As she stood to leave, the final note lingered, caressing her tongue with a flavor of poppy seed lined with a hint of salt.

The flavor of her own skin.