In a cozy little bakery tucked at the corner of Maple and Main, there lived a loaf of sourdough named Louie. He was crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, and full of dreams.

  Every morning, Louie watched as his fellow breads—baguettes, brioche, ciabatta—were pced on shelves, selected by smiling customers, and carried off to warm homes or fancy restaurants. But Louie wanted more. He didn’t just want to be eaten—he wanted to be remembered.

  “I want to matter,” he told the raisin rolls. “I want someone to say, ‘That loaf changed my life.’”

  The raisin rolls just shrugged. “Don’t get stale, Louie.”

  So, one early morning, while the baker was still asleep and the shop cat snored by the oven, Louie rolled himself off the shelf, plopped to the floor with a thud, and rolled right out the door.

  Outside, the world was bigger than Louie imagined. He dodged a pigeon, narrowly escaped being stepped on by a jogger, and hitched a ride on a skateboard until he nded in the park.

  There, Louie met a boy named Max, sitting alone on a bench with a sad lunch bag. Max opened it to reveal a soggy sandwich and frowned.

  “Bad day?” Louie asked.

  Max blinked. “Did… did a loaf of bread just talk to me?”

  “Yes. And trust me, I’m a better sandwich.”

  Max ughed, the first time all week. He took Louie home, toasted him gently, spread a little jam, and shared him with his grandmother. That night, Max smiled for the first time in days.

  The next morning, Max drew a picture of Louie and taped it on the fridge. At the bottom he wrote: The Best Bread I Ever Had.

  And just like that, Louie’s dream came true.

  He mattered.