Chapter Text
Image credit : Hoyoverse
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The rain had stopped just before dawn, but the streets of Okhema still shimmered with the damp sheen of yesterday’s sorrows.
Castorice stood beneath the awning of a shuttered florist, her coat drawn tightly around her shoulders. The city before her stretched in shades of grey and rust—buildings with boarded windows, neon signs blinking like dying embers, and alleyways haunted not by crime, but by memory.
Okhema had once pulsed with life. You couldn’t walk two blocks without brushing shoulders with merchants, tourists, scholars, and street performers. Carts spilled with citrus, rooftop cafés echoed with laughter, and the smell of spiced bread wafted through the air like a promise.
But now…?
Half the city was gone. The other half was pretending to live.
A bus rumbled past, mostly empty, tires hissing over puddles like a sigh too tired to cry. A child chased a stray balloon through a plaza with no music. An old man sold tea from a stall beneath a cracked statue of some forgotten hero.
The Black Tide War had done more than scorch the edges of nations—it had hollowed out the soul of cities like this. Okhema had no frontline, but it bled all the same. It bled in missing fathers, broken shops, silent kitchens.
And in debts.
Castorice's gloved fingers clutched the folded letter in her coat pocket—a final notice, with the ink stamped so hard it had bled through the paper. “Three weeks non operational, Then the Grand Chrysos will be closed by city order.”
Her breath fogged in the morning chill. She could see the restaurant from here—half hidden behind a construction tarp, its golden sign faded and crooked. Once the jewel of Okhema’s upper quarter. Now, a memory held together with hope and duct tape.
She took a step forward. Then another.
She had no real plan. No staff. Little money and just a dream that refused to die and a promise made years ago in a kitchen full of clattering pans and burning ambition.
Her fingers brushed the old key in her satchel—the one that still smelled faintly of thyme and roasted garlic.
“Hold on, Chrysos,” she whispered to no one but herself. “I’m not letting you die. Not while I still have breath.”
A low voice, almost teasing, echoed from her memory.
“You know, Castorice, there’s a difference between courage and madness. The trick is knowing when to be both.”
She smiled faintly. That was Anaxa, of course. Always watching, even when he claimed he wasn’t.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of scorched metal and something faintly sweet—like bruised peaches left out too long.
Castorice pulled her coat tighter, boots clicking softly along the rain-slick pavement as she passed what remained of Okhema’s once-vibrant central boulevard. Empty storefronts lined the street like hollow shells, their windows smeared with grime and their awnings sagging with rot. One still bore a faded chalkboard:
“20% OFF ALL SPICES — Until the War Ends!”
The chalk had run into a blur. The war hadn’t ended. The shop had.
She walked past a broken streetlamp, ducking slightly as its snapped metal arm drooped into the sidewalk like a warning. To her left, a café she used to visit with Phainon had become a temporary barracks during the worst days of the Black Tide. Now it sat silent again, its brick walls patched with sheet metal and its tables overtaken by rust.
A little further down, a mural sprawled across a crumbling wall—an artist’s desperate plea for color. It showed a young woman stirring a pot as golden light poured from it, casting warmth on a faceless crowd. Above it, scrawled in bold strokes of paint:
“Feed the Future.”
Castorice paused.
She recognized the style. Phainon had taken a photo of this mural the day they graduated. She remembered laughing, teasing him that he couldn’t boil rice properly back then—now he quoted the mural like scripture.
She walked on.
The streets narrowed as she entered the upper quarter. It had once been a lively food district—fine dining, guildhalls, even street vendors with enchanted ovens that puffed out sweet cinnamon smoke. Now, it felt like the hollow ribcage of a beast that had once roared with pride. Empty produce crates sat abandoned on corners. A flyer fluttered by her boots.
“Seeking Dishwashers – Pay in Ration Stamps Only”
There it was.
The Grand Chrysos.
Or what was left of it.
Its golden signage was still bolted above the door, but the letters were weathered and sun-bleached, and the "C" in "Chrysos" had fallen, hanging by a single screw like a crooked tooth. One of the tall windows was boarded up. The flowerbox beneath it had long since dried out, save for a stubborn weed growing between the slats.
And there, nailed to the double doors, was the sign.
"GRAND CHRYSOS – CLOSED BY CITY ORDER – DUE TO INDEFINITE NON-OPERATION.
ALL ASSETS SUBJECT TO AUCTION."
The letters were stamped in harsh red ink, and someone had scribbled graffiti just underneath:
“Another one bites the dust.”
She reached into her coat, pulled out the tarnished brass key, and slid it into the lock. It stuck for a moment—just long enough for doubt to whisper.
But then it turned.
And she pushed the door open.
She pushed the creaked door open, and the hinges groaned in protest, like an old man too tired to rise from bed. The air inside was heavy—thick with the scent of dust, mildew, and something faintly sour, like spoiled wine and forgotten dreams.
Darkness clung to the corners like cobwebs, and the only light that slipped in was the pale grey dawn through the cracked windowpanes. As her eyes adjusted, Castorice took a step forward, boots echoing across the warped wooden floor.
Chairs lay toppled like corpses from a long-forgotten battle, their legs tangled and cracked. A few were stacked haphazardly on tables, some broken at the joints, others eaten away by time and neglect. The velvet on the benches was threadbare and stained, once rich burgundy now faded to rust.
The chandelier overhead—once the pride of the main hall, sculpted from Okhemian glass—hung lopsided, three bulbs shattered, two flickering faintly like ghosts who hadn’t yet left.
The bar was covered in a thick film of dust, bottles still arranged by type, though many had lost their labels to moisture. A few had leaked, sticky trails forming amber stains like dried tears.
She moved behind the counter, ran her gloved finger across the old register. It didn’t respond to her touch. Neither did the silence.
The kitchen door hung slightly ajar. She hesitated. Then pushed it.
Inside, the scent shifted—old oil, rotted vegetables, and a tang of rusted steel. The stoves were cold. The prep counters littered with the remnants of a final shift that had never cleaned up: a warped ladle, a knife with a cracked handle, a pile of onions half-peeled and long gone soft.
She stepped over a shattered plate and bent down to pick up an old, grease-stained menu. The corner was singed.
“Grilled Mahi with Starfruit Glaze – 28 credits”
“Chef's Recommendation: Cloudcap Mushroom Bisque”
The silence was deafening now. And yet—beneath it—something else lingered. Not just decay, not just ruin.
Memory. Potential.
It wasn’t dead. Not yet.
She straightened up, brushing dust from her sleeves, her eyes firm.
“Alright,” she murmured into the quiet. “Let’s clean you up.”
The first hours were the worst.
The air was stale and damp, clinging to her lungs like old regret. She pried open every window she could find, letting the grey light spill into the hollow shell of the restaurant. Dust danced like ash in the sunbeams, disturbed for the first time in months.
Armed with a tattered apron and a cracked bucket she found beneath the sink, Castorice began scrubbing the front hall. She wiped down the bar counter, cleared out dead insects from behind the wine shelves, and hauled chairs upright—testing each one to see which legs still held. Most wobbled. A few snapped on contact. She set them aside and made a “salvage” pile near the kitchen door.
The kitchen was another battlefield. She cleared the prep counters of spoiled ingredients, scrubbing the rust from the sinks until her knuckles turned raw. The ovens coughed when she tried the knobs—most didn’t spark at all.
Frowning, she went down into the utility cellar, navigating by memory and flashlight. The breaker box was still intact. She took a breath, flipped the main switch—
—and the restaurant stuttered to life.
Flickering bulbs overhead buzzed and blinked. One died instantly in a flash. But the others? They stayed on.
She smiled for the first time in hours. A small, private triumph.
Back upstairs, she wiped her forehead with her sleeve and surveyed her progress. The Grand Chrysos was far from reborn… but it no longer felt dead.
Later, as the sun dipped beneath the skyline and painted the walls with shades of amber and charcoal, she returned to the kitchen.
Her stomach rumbled. The cleaning had drained her, but she hadn’t eaten since morning.
She opened the half-stocked pantry—what hadn’t rotted was just barely usable. But there were a few things that had survived: a bag of arborio rice, a bulb of garlic, some dried mushrooms, a near-empty bottle of cheap white wine, and a single cracked wedge of hard cheese wrapped in cloth.
She nodded.
Risotto.
A dish born of patience and persistence—fitting.
She moved like someone relearning the rhythm of a song. Water on the stove. Garlic crushed with the heel of her hand. Mushrooms rehydrated, rice toasted, broth stirred in slowly. The room filled with warmth again—real warmth, not just heat. The smell of something made with care.
By the time she sat down at the bar with the steaming bowl, her arms ached and her back protested. But the first bite—creamy, earthy, comforting—was worth it.
She closed her eyes and let it sit on her tongue.
She finished quietly, then rinsed the dish and placed it in the rack.
Standing alone in the center of the room, now dimly lit and cleaner than it had been in months, she took a breath.
The Grand Chrysos still had a heartbeat.
And she knew exactly what the next step was.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered to the ghost-light fixtures, “I go to the marketplace. If I’m going to rebuild this place—I’ll need suppliers. A new network. Ingredients. Allies.”
She glanced toward the menu board still hanging over the kitchen pass.
Then added, half to herself, half to the empty room:
“…and maybe a miracle.”
That night, as Castorice slept curled up on a dusty couch near the kitchen of the restaurant, the scent of mushrooms and old smoke still clinging to her clothes, the past crept in through her dreams—soft and golden at first, like the early morning sun through dormitory curtains.
She was back at the Grove of Epiphany.
The stone halls of the culinary school buzzed with life, younger voices echoing down long corridors lined with copper pots and embroidered school banners. Castorice, younger and nervous, walked down one such hallway, still clutching a scorched linen towel from her mock kitchen trial. Her hands stung from the heat of the pan—she had forgotten the mitts again.
She paused at a familiar oak door. It had her name written in chalk under a scrawled note:
“My office. Now. Don’t bring a knife unless it’s for show. – Anaxa.”
She sighed, adjusted her hair, and stepped inside.
The room smelled faintly of lemon peel, ink, and smoldering parchment. Books were stacked in hazardous towers across the floor. Strange spices lay open in labeled tins beside tiny glass vials of reduced sauces. A jar of dancing fireflies illuminated the room in dim, pulsing yellow.
But she wasn't looking at any of that.
On the leather sofa beneath the stained-glass window sat Aglaea.
Poised. Immaculate. Dressed in a deep navy coat embroidered with gold-threaded sigils of her family crest, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. Her hair was pinned up with surgical precision, and she smiled with a quiet confidence that both soothed and unnerved.
“You’ve scorched your sleeve again,” Aglaea said softly, her tone amused as she gestured toward Castorice’s towel-wrapped arm.
Castorice froze in the doorway.
Her first instinct was disbelief. For a moment, she thought she had entered the wrong room—or that the heat from the kitchen trial had finally gotten to her head.
“Lady Aglaea…?” she said, blinking. “What are you—”
“Doing here?” Aglaea finished for her, tilting her head slightly. Her smile was faint, unreadable, the kind that said she already knew the questions before they were asked. “I do fund the school, you know. It’s not unheard of for a patron to visit… occasionally.”
Aglaea raised one hand. “Relax. This isn’t an interrogation. Anaxa merely invited me to observe his most… spirited protégée.”
Castorice blinked, stepping more fully into the room. “You… watched my trial?”
Aglaea stood now, pacing slowly toward her. “More importantly, I’ve been reading the reports Anaxa sends me. Reluctantly, of course—he's allergic to structure. But his words about you…” She tapped a scroll on the desk. “They're not ordinary praise. He thinks you're something special.”
“I’m… honored.” Castorice bowed slightly, though her voice wavered. “But I wasn’t expecting this,” she admitted, eyes downcast. “I would’ve—prepared.”
Aglaea chuckled—a soft, measured sound. “If I waited for people to prepare, I’d never see anyone as they truly are. Besides, Anaxa insisted I come today. Said your trial was worth watching. That’s rare praise from him, you know.”
Castorice blinked. “He… told you to come?”
“Oh yes. Though not in those words exactly.” Aglaea made a vague gesture. “He said, and I quote, ‘She’s finally stopped setting the sauce on fire. You might want to witness the miracle.’”
Castorice looked up.
Aglaea’s voice was firm, not cruel—just rooted in certainty.
“You’ve done exactly what you needed to. You’ve endured. You’ve improved. And, more than anything, you’ve shown taste—not just for flavor, but for ambition. That’s rarer than you think.”
She took a slow breath, then extended a thick folder toward Castorice.
“These are the original shares and ownership contracts of a very old business of mine. It used to be a culinary jewel, but it’s fallen. Ruined by poor management and the war. No one expects it to survive another quarter.”
Castorice opened the folder hesitantly.
Across the top was stamped in gold-foil script:
The Grand Chrysos Restaurant
Her eyes widened. “This is—?”
“I want you to try managing it,” Aglaea said calmly. “Revive it. If you can. It’s a test, of course. Of your potential. Of the investment I made in you.”
“But…” Castorice’s brow furrowed. “I’m still a student. There are others—chefs with experience, with capital, with teams—why would you give this to me?”
“Because,” Aglaea said, stepping closer now, her voice just above a whisper, “I didn’t pay your tuition to make you a cook.”
She leaned in, gaze intense.
“It’s because I believe in you.”
Silence fell for a long moment.
And then, almost unexpectedly, Aglaea’s hand settled gently on Castorice’s shoulder. “You don’t have to say yes now. But if you want to change the world, start by saving one kitchen.”
Castorice stirred in her sleep, a faint smile ghosting across her lips as she dreamed of that moment.
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And then, like dawn cutting through fog, she opened her eyes.
The restaurant was quiet. Dim light from the streetlamps glowed through the windows. Somewhere in the kitchen, a floorboard creaked from settling.
She sat up, drawing her coat tighter around her, and whispered:
“Don’t worry, Aglaea. I remember my promise.”
Her eyes flicked to the market list she had scrawled before sleeping—notes on flour, broth bones, salt, and one specific request from a vendor she hadn’t seen in years.
The sun would rise soon.
And she had business to do.
Okhema — Morning
The scent of miso and jasmine rice drifted faintly from the kitchen as Castorice stirred the pot with one hand, tying her apron with the other. She had woken before the sun, her dream still echoing in her mind—Aglaea’s voice, the weight of the old envelope, the quiet challenge etched in that velvet gaze.
Her movements were sharper this morning. More focused.
She ladled out a simple porridge—soft rice boiled with dried anchovy stock and a pinch of pepper paste. No garnish, no theatrics. Just nourishment. She ate it standing by the window, watching the waking city below as fog lifted slowly from cracked cobblestones and iron streetlamps flickered out one by one.
The streets of Okhema were no longer bustling—but they were alive.
By midmorning, Castorice stood in front of the Okhema Credit and Mercantile Bank, her coat neat, her documents pressed flat against her chest. The building’s old sandstone pillars loomed above her like judges carved in stone.
Inside, the warm hum of ticking clocks and whispered abacuses filled the air.
The man behind the main desk glanced up from a ledger. Late middle age, with a pocket watch and wire-rimmed glasses that slid down his nose whenever he frowned—which was often.
“Yes?” he asked without looking up again.
“I’m Castorice,” she said, voice polite but unwavering. “Owner and acting manager of the Grand Chrysos Restaurant. I’m here to discuss a potential loan.”
The man paused mid-scribble, blinking once.
“…The Grand Chrysos?” he repeated, as if she had said the name of a ghost. “You mean that ruined marble tomb near the northern quarter?”
“It’s being restored,” she replied calmly. “I’ve already begun the process.”
The banker leaned back slightly, giving her a longer, almost amused look.
“Miss, no offense, but that building hasn’t hosted a soul in over a year. It’s bleeding rent and legacy debt. No kitchen supply syndicate will touch it. Even the last staff abandoned it.”
She didn’t flinch. “That’s why I’m here. To change that.”
He opened his mouth—to scoff, perhaps—but she placed the papers neatly on the desk. “I’m not asking for much. A modest sum. Enough for renovations and starter capital. I’m offering a monthly repayment schedule starting immediately. No delay. No mercy period.”
“And your collateral?” he asked, finally interested.
Castorice took a breath. “The Grand Chrysos itself.”
He blinked again. “You’re offering a crumbling restaurant as the guarantee for a loan to rebuild it?”
“Yes.”
There was a long silence between them. Then the banker leaned forward, folding his hands.
“…And you truly believe you can pull that place out of ruin?”
She didn’t hesitate.
“I don’t believe,” she said. “I will. I’ve staked everything on it already. I’m not here to beg—I’m here to prove it. Give me one chance. One month. If I miss a single payment, you can claim the property.”
The banker stared at her. Studied her. Then—unexpectedly—he laughed. Not cruelly, but with a kind of exasperated admiration.
“Gods above,” he muttered. “You remind me of my niece. She tried to open a flower shop during the peak of the recession.” He shook his head and reached for his stamp. “Fine. One month trial. First payment in thirty days, as discussed.”
THUNK.
The stamp hit the page.
Castorice exhaled slowly, her shoulders finally easing.
“Thank you,” she said with a bow.
As she stepped out of the bank and back onto the street, the wind picked up again, cold but bracing. The sun was climbing higher now, golden across the city’s soot-streaked skyline.
Okhema Market District — Noon
The marketplace had survived the war better than most districts. It still bustled—albeit on quieter feet, with thinner stalls and weary smiles. Fabrics fluttered like faded flags overhead, and the scent of spices battled the sharper notes of rust and smoke that clung to the air like ghosts.
Castorice moved through the rows with practiced ease, her shopping list folded neatly in one hand, her wallet in the other. Her coat was still buttoned to the top, but her step was lighter than it had been in months.
Behind every booth she stopped at, a familiar pattern emerged: suspicion, skepticism… and then recognition.
“Wait—Grove of Epiphany, right?”
“You’re one of Anaxa’s students?”
“He’s still alive? Stars, we thought he retired.”
A letter of recommendation, sealed in golden wax and signed in Anaxa’s spiraling, chaotic scrawl, did most of the talking. Some merchants raised their brows at the name. Others nodded grimly with a touch of respect. Many of them had catered events for the school, or had children who’d studied there, or remembered when Grand Chrysos still made headlines for its golden truffle consommé.
Each negotiation was a gentle dance—but her calm voice, modest loan money, and the weight of Anaxa’s signature eventually wore down their hesitation.
By the end of the day, she had secured:
- Basic rice, flour, and preserved vegetables from the southern quarter’s grocer,
- A discount meat bundle from an old butcher who claimed to have once served tripe stew to Anaxa himself (and regretted it),
- A spice rack on loan from a spice mistress who had once judged culinary contests at Epiphany,
- And a delivery agreement with a dairy vendor who remembered Castorice’s lemon curd pie from a midterm exam four years ago.
Grand Chrysos — Early Evening
She returned to the restaurant with bags hanging from her arms and boots damp from a puddle-strewn shortcut. The building greeted her like a half-awake beast—silent, still sore, but stirring.
The storage fridge buzzed faintly when she plugged it in, its little green light blinking like a heartbeat. She leaned her forehead against its cool metal door and closed her eyes.
Still alive, she thought. Just like me.
The pantry shelves were wiped clean, containers labeled in crisp handwriting. One of the old oil lamps had been repaired and glowed warmly by the stove. She packed away the new ingredients with reverence—rice like treasure, onions like amulets.
Then she sat at the counter and began scribbling menus by hand.
Not printed. Not elaborate. Just neat, precise ink lines on thick paper:
Grand Chrysos Revival Menu (Week 1):
- Mushroom and Herb Rice Bowl
- Seaweed Soup with Toasted Millet
- Soy-Butter Stirred Greens
- Root Vegetable Curry
- Sweet Chestnut Porridge (Limited Batch)
Each one took her about five minutes. She made fifty before her wrist started to cramp. She tied her hair up, rolled her sleeves again, and kept going.
The sun hadn’t risen fully when Castorice was out again—basket in one hand, flyers in the other. She stopped passerby with a polite bow and a smile.
“Pardon, may I give you this? We’re reopening soon.”
Some took the paper out of courtesy. Others listened, curious, asking about the old building, the new menu, her connection to Epiphany.
She went door to door in the nearby blocks. Slipped flyers under shop windows. Pinned one to the community corkboard beside the tram stop. Spoke gently to fruit vendors, construction workers, retired teachers leaning on canes outside cafés.
Not a single coin spent on promotion. Just footsteps, soft persistence, and her voice—quiet but constant.
By the time the sun was high again, her fingers were ink-stained and her shoes were worn thin.
But her heart felt steady. Like the fridge’s hum. Like the first soft boil of stock before a perfect risotto.
Tomorrow, maybe someone would come.
Grand Chrysos — Opening Day
The paper sign on the door was flipped over with care.
OPEN, it read in handwritten ink, the letters clean and hopeful.
Castorice stood by the entrance, her apron pressed, her hair tied back with a simple ribbon. The dining area was modestly arranged—polished tables, folded cloth napkins, a faint scent of simmered broth drifting from the back kitchen. She had even lit the hanging lanterns by hand, their glow soft against the scarred marble walls.
She waited.
Ten minutes passed.
Then thirty.
Still, no footsteps on the stone. No bell above the door.
She checked the time again. Then peeked outside, fingers brushing the edge of the doorway.
The streets were quiet. Too quiet.
Once, Okhema’s market lane would have been a mess of color and shouting by now. Children running with sweetbread, merchants barking about dumplings and peach vinegar. But now—
Only tired silhouettes passed by. Faces downturned. Shoulders hunched. War had aged them all. Stolen their appetite for more than just food.
A man dragging a cart didn’t even glance her way. A woman clutching a ration bag crossed the road before passing the restaurant’s front step.
Castorice’s fingers curled slightly.
Was it the flyers?
Did I aim too small? Too humble? Or… have they simply given up on this place?
She paced for a moment, biting her lip, then paused as her eyes landed on a pair of folding tables by the side of the counter. An idea flickered.
If they wouldn’t come in…
She would bring the restaurant out.
She moved one table outside, then another, aligning them near the edge of the path. She dragged out the small portable stove from storage—a clunky old thing that hissed like a snake when lit, but still worked. The overhead sign wobbled faintly in the wind as she placed a pan on the flame and added a knob of ginger-infused oil.
The scent rose immediately—sharp and rich, laced with soy and toasted sesame.
She plated a few samples. Simple rice bowls, stir-fried greens, golden root skewers.
Maybe if they smelled it, they’d remember. Maybe if they saw it, they’d stop.
But the people kept walking.
Eyes forward. Faces blank.
As if something invisible pressed on them—some invisible weight that bent their backs and dulled their senses. A war-torn city without a moment to breathe. As if hope itself had become too expensive to taste.
A boy slowed down briefly… then was tugged away by his older sister.
Castorice stood still behind the small stand, the heat from the portable burner warming only her fingertips, not her chest.
No smiles. No greetings. No interest.
Just the low, constant hum of a grieving city.
Her voice, when she spoke to the air, was almost a whisper.
“…Is this what’s left of Okhema?”
A wind brushed past, flipping one of her flyers down the street like a forgotten letter.
Late Afternoon — Outside Grand Chrysos
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the market lane like fading scars. The smell of soy and ginger lingered in the air, but it wasn’t enough to slow the city’s tired footsteps.
Castorice stood with a wooden tray in her hands, offering small bowls of porridge and rice to anyone who passed.
“Free sample, if you’d like. Please.”
A middle-aged man looked at her, then at the bowl. His eyes flickered with something unreadable—then he walked on, silent.
Another woman paused. She smelled the dish, tilted her head… then offered a faint, polite nod before following her group down the lane without tasting a thing.
A teenage boy took a bite, then shrugged and disappeared.
Two elderly sisters stopped briefly. They smiled at her with genuine warmth, each tasting a spoonful.
“It reminds me of my son’s cooking,” one said quietly, before offering a coin and pointing to a small curry bowl.
By sunset, she had given out thirty samples.
Only five people had tasted anything.
Only two had purchased a meal—both to-go, both without sitting down or speaking much.
She stood quietly behind her stand as the last flickers of daylight slipped beneath the city’s skyline. The burner hissed once before dying out with a soft click. The cold returned to her hands.
Her fingers trembled as she cleaned the empty sample bowls.
It’s only the first day, she reminded herself, gently, almost pleading.
But the silence hurt.
The kind of silence that didn’t echo—it just sank in. Heavy. Still.
She pressed her back against the doorframe and lowered herself onto the top step, elbows on her knees. Her eyes stung as the city lights flickered half-heartedly in the distance. The wind carried no crowds, no music, no hope.
A single tear slid down her cheek before she wiped it away with the side of her wrist.
No. Don’t cry. Not yet.
She stood, exhaling slowly. Then began pulling the tables back inside. She stacked the chairs, cleaned the stovetop, packed the leftover ingredients. The lanterns were turned off one by one.
The scent of her food still lingered faintly in the empty air, like a memory no one stopped to recall.
At the door, she paused.
The small wooden sign was flipped back over.
CLOSED.
Castorice looked at it, her hand lingering on the edge.
Then she whispered, “I’ll open it again tomorrow.”
And shut the door behind her.