The last molecule of reality digested, leaving only:
A stain that might be blood or balsamic reduction
A single tooth (yours, always yours)
The echo of a lullaby nobody remembers learning
The Chef wipes its hands on a apron woven from:
Payune's last scream
Hayuni's severed tails
The Third's satisfied sigh
"Next service in ten thousand years," it announces to the void.
The void does not applaud.
From the stain sprouts:
A seedling with leaves like knife blades
A root system that spells your social security number
The distinct impression you're being watched
The Chef tastes a leaf and makes a note in its cookbook:
"Add more salt next time."
The tooth vibrates in your palm, revealing:
A time (tomorrow at 3 AM)
A location (your childhood home's attic)
A dress code (bring all your baby teeth)
The Chef winks with an eye that looks suspiciously like:
Your mother's
Your worst memory
The "o" in this sentence
The kitchen never closes.
The high chair never empties.
The recipe is always changing.
YOUR NAME IS NEXT ON THE MENU.