Eli had always been an unremarkable baker. His small shop in the heart of the city was known for its simple, warm loaves of bread, baked daily with care and consistency. He had never expected to be anything more than a humble man, content with his craft. But that was before the old woman came.

It happened one crisp autumn morning, just as the sun began to peek through the fog. The bell above the bakery door jingled, and in walked a woman so old she seemed to blur the line between the past and present. Her eyes were sharp, though, piercing as though she had seen every corner of time.

"I have something for you," she said, her voice rasping like dried leaves. From under her cloak, she revealed a copper bowl, its surface tarnished with age but still glinting faintly in the light.

Eli raised an eyebrow, unsure of her meaning. "Thank you, but I can't accept such a gift. I don't need—"

"Take it," she insisted, her voice firm. "This bowl once belonged to a king, and it will bring you something you do need."

Before he could protest further, the woman placed the bowl on the counter and left, her steps slow but purposeful, fading into the morning mist. Eli stood staring at it, puzzled. The bowl felt warm, almost alive in his hands, as if it had a pulse of its own.

That evening, as he prepared his dough, he placed the bowl next to his workbench. Something strange happened as he kneaded the bread. The flour seemed to swirl in the air, as if following an unseen rhythm. When he shaped the dough, the texture felt different—more fluid, more responsive than it ever had before. He didn’t notice the patterns forming on the surface of the dough at first. It was only when he glanced down to prepare the loaves for the oven that he saw them.

The shapes were intricate—lines, swirls, symbols—that he hadn’t intended. They seemed to pulse with meaning, as though they were trying to communicate something. His heart skipped a beat when he realized the bread wasn’t just taking on strange patterns—it was showing him a vision.

One of the loaves held an image of a great storm, swirling above a distant sea. Another showed a crowded marketplace, with a tall man in a green cloak standing by a cart. The last loaf—his favorite, the simplest round one—showed a vision of a woman entering the bakery, her face warm and familiar, though Eli could not place it.

As the bread baked, the patterns on their surfaces began to change, shifting and revealing new scenes. The storm cloud darkened. The man in the marketplace lifted his hand, as if reaching for something. And the woman—she was smiling, holding a basket of bread, stepping through the door.

Eli’s breath caught in his throat. The visions were too clear, too vivid. But how could this be? Was it the bowl? Was it his imagination?

The next morning, a messenger arrived in the bakery, breathless and frantic. "A storm is approaching from the west. Ships are in danger!" he exclaimed.

Eli’s mind raced. The storm—he had seen it the night before, in the bread. He reached for his most recent batch, but before he could examine it, the door opened again, and in walked the woman from yesterday, just as the loaf had predicted.

She smiled knowingly, her eyes glimmering with the same strange light that had been in the bowl.

"You see, Eli," she said, settling into the corner of his shop. "The bowl belongs to the Shah of the Seven Valleys, a man who could read the patterns of the world. It passes on its gift only to those it chooses, and now, it has chosen you."

Eli swallowed, trying to make sense of it all. “You... you knew this would happen?”

She nodded, her hands folded in her lap. “Not everything. But the patterns tell you what you need to know. If you can read them, you can change the course of things. Each loaf of bread you make now will show a glimpse of what is to come. But the future is a delicate thing. Too much knowledge can bind you to it.”

The woman’s warning echoed in Eli’s mind as the days passed. The bread’s patterns grew more intricate, and with them, the predictions of what would happen: a lost ring would be found, a child would be born, an argument would be mended. Some of the visions were joyous, others troubling, but each one felt like a thread being woven into the fabric of his life.

Eli had a choice now. He could continue to bake, letting the copper bowl guide his hand, revealing the future in every loaf. Or he could let go, let the bread be what it had always been—simple, humble, without the burden of knowing what was yet to come.

But as the days went on, he couldn’t resist. He couldn’t turn away from the pull of the patterns. With each batch of dough, he found himself looking into the future—sometimes fearful, sometimes hopeful—but always connected to the world in a way he had never known.

One morning, he pulled a loaf from the oven, and as the steam rose, he saw the woman’s face once more. This time, she was standing beside him, her eyes soft with approval.

"The bowl was a gift," she whispered, "but the power to shape your future—Eli, that was always yours."

And with that, the visions in his bread became less about the future and more about the present. The bowl had given him the ability to see, but it was the choice of what to do with that knowledge that made all the difference.

Eli smiled, setting the loaf on the counter. For the first time in a long while, he felt content. The bowl, the bread, the patterns—they were no longer something to fear. They were just part of the art of baking, part of the life he had chosen.

And that, he realized, was the true magic.