Marielle reached out, trying to feed me.
I immediately pulled back.
“I’ll do it myself.” I took the fork.
The bowl of noodles looked pristine.
White noodles.
Clear broth.
A fried egg on top.
Simple—so simple.
Yet familiar.
I took a bite.
The moment the flavor hit, my chest tightened.
So familiar.
Familiar enough to soften the heart, and yet ache it.
“How is it?” Marielle’s voice became lip movements in my eyes. “Good?”
I paused.
“Did you make this?”
“Yes.” She smiled gently. “Even Evangeline has never had noodles made by Mom’s own hands. You’re the first.”
It was as if she wanted to tell me that I was special.
As if she wanted to tell me that she loved me.
But all I felt was absurdity.
I knew this taste too well.
So well that the moment it touched
