The morning mist still clung stubbornly to the earth as Noura trudged along the narrow, uneven path that led away from the village center. Her stomach growled in protest, a gnawing reminder of how little she had eaten since arriving. In her arms, she clutched the leather-bound cookbook—her grandmother's recipes—and slung across her back was the satchel holding the divine chef's tools, though she had no ingredients to put them to use.
The villagers had been kind enough to give her shelter for the night, but their food stores were meager. Most of their crops had been damaged by a recent blight, leaving even the native inhabitants struggling. Noura knew she couldn't rely on their charity for long. If she wanted to survive, she would have to find a way to contribute—or risk being seen as just another mouth to feed.
She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, still adjusting to the sensation of her younger body. Twenty-two again. It was a gift, but one she would have to earn.
I need to find something. Anything, she thought, scanning the overgrown fields that bordered the village.
Beyond a cluster of elder trees, something caught her eye—a squat, weathered building half-buried by ivy and creeping moss. The roof sagged under years of neglect, and one of the shutters hung loosely on a rusted hinge. Curious, and with little else to guide her, Noura approached.
The wooden sign above the door was so faded she could barely make out the words. But there, underneath layers of grime, she discerned the unmistakable image of a ladle crossed with a knife—symbols that made her heart skip a beat.
A kitchen?
Her fingers trembled slightly as she pushed the door open. It gave way with a groan, revealing a long-forgotten space within.
Dust motes danced lazily in the shafts of morning light that filtered through cracks in the walls. A stone hearth yawned on one side, blackened with soot but still sturdy. Wooden countertops lined the edges of the room, covered in a thick layer of dust. Iron pots hung from hooks on the walls, some so rusted they might crumble at a touch, but others merely tarnished.
In the center of it all stood a great, scarred table—its surface marred with deep cuts from countless knives, its wood saturated with the scents of a thousand meals now long past.
Noura stepped inside, her boots stirring up little clouds of dust. She could almost hear the ghostly echoes of clattering pans and hearty laughter. Somewhere deep in her chest, a locked-away memory stirred: her mother's hands teaching her how to peel shallots; the smoky, spicy aroma of her grandmother's sambal simmering on the stove.
A lump formed in her throat.
This place wasn't just abandoned—it was forgotten. Left to rot, like her own dreams once had been.
But not anymore.
She set her bag down carefully and moved through the kitchen, inspecting what could be salvaged. Some of the utensils were beyond hope, but the large stone oven in the corner seemed intact. The chimney was clogged with debris, but she could clean it. The well pump still groaned when she tested it, spitting out a trickle of brown water—filthy now, but maybe the plumbing could be repaired.
The more she looked, the more her heart raced with possibilities.
"I could make this work," she whispered aloud, her voice trembling.
She opened the cookbook, running her fingers reverently over the old pages. Many were brittle, some nearly illegible, but enough recipes remained clear. Dishes her grandmother had once spoken of with pride. Dishes that no one here would have tasted.
She wasn't just reborn to live again.
She was reborn to cook.
***
The next few hours passed in a blur of determined effort. She pried open windows to let in fresh air, swept out years of accumulated dirt, and scrubbed every surface she could. Her arms ached from the labor, but the satisfaction of reclaiming the space drove her on.
Around noon, an unexpected visitor appeared.
"Oi! What are you doing in there?"
Noura looked up to see a man standing in the doorway. He was older, with weather-beaten skin and a skeptical look on his face. He wore the simple tunic and pants of a laborer, and a heavy axe hung from his belt.
"This is private property," he added, stepping inside.
"I'm sorry," Noura said quickly, brushing dust from her skirt. "I found it abandoned. I... I thought maybe I could fix it."
The man frowned. "This place belonged to Old Mira. She used to run a little tavern here, long ago. After she passed, no one wanted it. Too many bad memories. Some say it's cursed."
Noura's stomach twisted, but she met his gaze steadily. "Maybe it just needs new memories."
The man studied her for a long moment, then grunted. "Hmph. Well, you're not wrong. And nobody's used it in years."
He scratched his beard thoughtfully.
"If you can clean it up and make it safe again, the village council might let you have it. They're always talking about needing more hands to rebuild after the blight."
Hope flared in Noura's chest.
"Thank you. I'll do my best."
The man nodded and turned to leave, then paused.
"I'm Garrick, Garrick Stonefield," he said over his shoulder. "If you need lumber to fix that roof, talk to me."
"Thank you, Garrick!" she called after him, her heart lighter than it had been in days.
***
The next days were some of the hardest—and most fulfilling—of Noura's life.
She patched holes in the roof with salvaged wood and cleared the old chimney with the help of Garrick and some of the other villagers, who warmed to her once they saw her determination.
She scrubbed rust from pans using ash and salt, mended cracked countertops, and scoured the hearth until her hands were raw. She learned how to barter for ingredients she couldn't forage herself, trading small favors or cleaning work.
Still, food remained scarce. She learned to make do with bitter greens, wild onions, and small, bony fish from the nearby river. Each meal was a creative exercise in survival.
Every night, she collapsed onto a makeshift bed of straw tucked into a corner of the kitchen, utterly exhausted yet deeply content.
And every morning, she woke to a place that looked a little more like a real kitchen again—and a little more like a home.
***
At the noon Noura gathered her courage and returned to the square, seeking out the village elder, a bent old woman named Agnes Thornbrook who presided over most decisions.
Agnes listened carefully as Noura, halting and awkward, explained her plan using gestures and the few words she had picked up. She showed her the satchel with its divine tools, the recipe book written in flowing, ancient script.
When Noura finished, Agnes leaned heavily on her cane, studying her with sharp, bright eyes.
"You wish to cook here?" she said slowly, each word deliberate.
Noura nodded fiercely.
The elder smiled, a thin, wry expression. "Mistress Beatrix would not want her kitchen to rot away. Prove you have the hands for it. Feed the village. Then it shall be yours."
***
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky in hues of fire and gold, Noura sat at the old wooden table, poring over her grandmother's cookbook by candlelight.
The recipes were simple but spoke of a love for flavor, for nourishment, for community. Sambal terasi.Ayam woku.Nasi liwet.or just a simple recipe like Simple Porridge for Hard Days and Honey Cakes for Joyful Births.
She smiled through her exhaustion.
"I'll make them all," she promised the empty room. "One day, I'll make them all."
A soft knock at the door startled her.
She looked up to see a young girl, no more than ten, peeking inside shyly.
"Miss Noura? My mother sent me. She said you might need some herbs. We have some basil and lemongrass."
Noura's heart swelled.
"Yes, please. That would be wonderful."
The girl beamed and scampered off, returning moments later with a small bundle of fragrant greens tied with twine.
Noura accepted it gratefully, kneeling down so they were eye to eye.
"Thank you. What's your name?"
"Elsa," the girl said proudly.
"Well, Elsa, you've just given me the best gift I've had in a very long time."
The child giggled and ran off, leaving Noura standing in the doorway, clutching the herbs to her chest.
Maybe she couldn't change the whole world.
But maybe, just maybe, she could change this little corner of it.
Back at the kitchen, Noura stoked the hearth, coaxing it to life after much cursing and sore knuckles. The fire roared, greedy and alive, and for the first time in this world, Noura felt alive too.
She chopped. She stirred. She seasoned. The divine knives slid through vegetables like whispers; the battered old cauldron, once scrubbed, embraced the bubbling stew with surprising warmth.
As the aroma filled the air—savory, rich, comforting—villagers began to gather outside, drawn by the scent. Noura's nerves jangled like chimes in a storm. What if they hated it? What if she failed?
She ladled the stew into mismatched bowls and offered them with trembling hands.
First taste went to Agnes Thornbrook. The elder sipped, smacked her lips thoughtfully... and smiled.
"Welcome to Elderwood, cook," she said.
A cheer rose from the villagers, and Noura sagged in relief.
***
For the first time in years—maybe in her whole life—Noura felt like she belonged.
She served bowl after bowl, laughing when children asked for seconds and even thirds. Garrick clapped her on the back hard enough to nearly send her flying. Elsa slipped her a shy, flower-twined bracelet "for good luck."
As dusk fell, the villagers drifted away, full and content, leaving Noura alone once more in the battered kitchen.
***
That night, as she lay in her straw bed, the scent of fresh basil still clinging to the air, Noura closed her eyes and dreamed—not of deadlines and meetings and missed opportunities, but of laughter echoing through a bustling kitchen, of steaming bowls passed around a crowded table, of flavors so vivid they could bring tears to your eyes.
The abandoned kitchen was no longer abandoned.
And neither was she.
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