Because while he polished silverware, I roasted dried chiles until the kitchen filled with memory. I ground almonds, sesame seeds, cinnamon, cloves, cacao. I built a sauce thick, alive, impossible to ignore.
I didn’t cook to impress them.
I cooked because it was the only way I could still exist.
The first plate went out.
Then the second.
Then the third.
And then… something shifted.
The laughter stopped.
From inside the kitchen, I couldn’t see clearly, but I felt it—the kind of silence that comes not from disappointment, but from impact. From something reaching into places people forgot they had.
I peeked through the door.
No one spoke.
Men used to control sat frozen, forks suspended midair. Women forgot their perfect posture. Eyes shimmered. Plates were empty.
At the head of the table, Victor Hale—the man everyone respected, feared, obeyed—set his utensils down slowly.
Adrian forced a smile.
“Everything alright, Mr. Hale?”
But Victor didn’t answer.
He took another bite.
Closed his eyes.
And something changed in his face.
Not just surprise.
Recognition.
Pain.
Memory.
He stood up.
The room held its breath as he walked straight toward the kitchen.
Adrian rushed after him.