Rice.
It was the only thing that held steady on the shelf long enough for Marron to touch it.
Everything else shimmered in and out of existence—eggplants dissolving into pears, fish turning into cuts of pork, bundles of herbs replaced by unfamiliar roots.
Henri adjusted the flame beneath the pot with careful fingers.
"Water?" he asked.
A jar flickered into view.
Then another.
One cloudy.
One clear.
Marron reached for the clear one. It remained solid in her grip.
She poured, measuring by instinct, not sight.
The ghosts watched.
One at the nearest table leaned forward slightly, its outline sharpening for a heartbeat. Its mouth moved.
"Soft…"
Henri swallowed. "Rice is safe."
"Safe isn't the goal," Marron said quietly. "Listen."
Another whisper drifted down the long hall.
"Too long…"
"Cold…"
"Alone…"
The word lingered longer than the others.
Henri's shoulders tightened.
"Are they talking about food?"
"Maybe."
