Chapter 135: The Art of Care
Morning arrives like a held breath — warm, deliberate, laced with the hush of something sacred. A girl rises before the world stirs, her movements silent as silk against skin. She is not cooking. She is composing. Each ingredient, each fold of fruit and lace of flavor, is a note in a love song only one person will hear.
Her hands are precise, reverent. A bento box becomes an altar. Duck, mint, fig, almond, all placed with the care of someone offering pieces of her heart in edible form. A tart crowned in sugar glass. A parfait layered like memory. Tea steeped in quiet devotion. Every ribbon tied is a thread from her soul.
This is not lunch. This is a vow disguised as nourishment.
At school, the box becomes legend. Peers crowd to catch a glimpse, to taste what they mistake for luxury. But it is not made by a chef. It is not made for the world. It is made for one.
Later, alone, she unwraps it like scripture. Every bite says I see you. Every flavor whispers I chose this for you.
But beneath the sweetness lingers a bruise. She remembers the door. The room hidden behind a thumbprint. The maps of war. The training disguised as destiny. The small girl made into a blade.
She writes back. Not in food, but in ink.
You are good. You are gentle. I won't let them sharpen you into something that forgets how to feel.
And somewhere, far from the noise, that small girl trains and aches and waits.
She reads old truths in forgotten tongues and writes new ones of her own:
If I had a kingdom, it would be you. No crown. No war. Just your voice in every room.
She folds the words. Keeps them close.
And waits for nightfall.