A few weeks can feel like a lifetime. The furious, chaotic noise of that night at Aria had faded, replaced by the quiet, familiar symphony of my own kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating motes of flour dancing in the air. The scent of simmering black plums, star anise, and a hint of smoked paprika filled our home, a fragrance of my own invention, born not from a legacy to be protected, but from a quiet afternoon of simple curiosity.
The radio was on, playing softly in the corner. It was background noise, a low hum of classical music I used to help me think. My focus was entirely on the copper pot before me, watching the deep purple reduction as it thickened, clinging to the back of a silver spoon in a perfect, glossy sheet.
Then, the music faded, and a newscaster’s
