The last grain of rice was gone. Sera stared into the empty wooden bowl, her shoulders slumping slightly. She traced the inside with a fingertip, a small, sad gesture, as if trying to recapture the ghost of the flavor that had just vanished from her life. The brief, miraculous joy was over, and the vast, familiar emptiness of hunger was waiting to return.
Watching her from the stool by the hearth, a pang of something sharp and unfamiliar struck me in the chest. It wasn't pity, not exactly. It was empathy. I knew what it was like to want something desperately, to have a brief taste of it, and then have it snatched away.
"There's more, don't worry," I said, my voice softer than I intended.
Her head snapped up, her brilliant blue eyes wide with disbelief. I took the bowl from her trembling hands and walked back to the pot, scooping another generous portion onto it. This time, as she began to eat, it wasn't with the frantic desperation of before. Each bite was slow, deliberate, her eyes closing as she savored a sensation she was clearly terrified of forgetting.
While she ate, an idea sparked. I had seen a few other things on the dusty shelf. A small, tightly-sealed pouch of dark, dried leaves. A rough, brown chunk of unrefined sugar. I knew what they were. The memory came from a world away, from a life that felt like someone else's story.
I moved to the hearth, my actions feeling both strange and deeply familiar. I added a little water to a smaller pot, tossed in a few fragrant, star-shaped pods and a shard of a cinnamon-like bark from the spice pouch, and brought it to a boil. The cottage, already smelling of fried rice, was now filled with a new, even more intoxicating aroma—sweet, spicy, and warm. I added the tea leaves, the preserved milk I'd found, and a chunk of the sugar, letting it all brew together.
I poured the steaming, milky brown liquid into a crude clay cup and brought it to her. She looked up from her rice, her nose twitching, her long white ears swiveling towards the new smell.
"What is this?" she whispered, her voice full of awe.
"It's called Masala Chai," I said, offering the cup to her. "Try it. It's sweet and refreshing, isn't it?"
She took the cup with both hands, as if it were a sacred offering. She blew on it gently, then took a small, cautious sip. Her eyes went wide. The warmth spread through her chest, the sweetness bloomed on her tongue, followed by the surprising, delightful dance of the spices. It was another miracle, another flavor from a world she couldn't imagine. She cradled the warm cup to her chest, a real, genuine smile finally touching her lips.
The sight of that smile gave me the courage to finally ask. I sat on the edge of the cot, a respectful distance away.
"I'm Satvik," I said quietly. "Who are you?"
She took another long sip of the chai, the warmth seeming to melt the last of her defenses. She looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time without the feral glint of a predator in her eyes.
"I'm Sera," she said, her voice barely a whisper. Then, as if the dam had finally broken, her expression crumpled. The cup trembled in her hands. "I was looking for food… for my family. My sisters." Her voice broke, and tears welled in her blue eyes, catching the firelight like tiny stars. "They're hiding. They haven't eaten in days. They're starving."
She looked down at the half-eaten bowl of rice and the precious cup of tea in her hands, and a wave of guilt washed over her face. She was here, full and warm, while they were out there, cold and hungry.
"Please," she begged, her voice cracking as a tear finally escaped and traced a clean path through the dirt on her cheek. "Can you lend me some of this food? I will do anything. I'll work for you, I'll hunt for you—anything you want."
I looked at her, at this fierce warrior who had been brought to her knees, not by my strength, but by a simple act of kindness and a desperate love for her family. My own hunger gnawed at my stomach. I was alone in a strange new world with no resources. The logical part of my brain, the engineer, told me to be cautious, to preserve my own energy.
But the engineer was no longer in charge.
I thought of my own life, of the billions I'd had, the endless banquets I'd attended while feeling completely empty inside. I could probably go another day without eating. It would be uncomfortable. But for her sisters, another day could be the difference between life and death. The decision wasn't a decision at all. It was an answer.
"Okay," I said, my voice firm and clear, surprising even myself. "I'll help."
Relief so profound it was almost painful washed over her face. She nodded, unable to speak, and quickly finished the rest of her food.
There was no time to waste. I packed the rest of the fried rice into the large cooking pot, covering it with a flat stone to keep it warm. Sera, moving with a newfound energy, carefully poured the rest of the chai into a sealed waterskin. I lifted the heavy pot, and she clutched the teas-kin to her chest. A silent, efficient team, we left the little cottage and headed into the deep woods, Sera leading the way.
As we walked side-by-side through the twilight-dappled forest, I had to ask. "Why did you react like that? When you ate the rice, I mean. It was good, but you looked like you'd seen a ghost."
Sera shot me a look, as if I'd just asked why the sky was blue. "Good?" she said, shaking her head. "That was the best thing I have ever tasted in my entire life. Spices, salt, sugar… those are for aristocrats. For rich people in the big cities." She gestured around at the dense forest. "People like us, we eat what we can find. Roots, berries, mushrooms. If we're lucky, we catch a squirrel and roast it. It's all… bland. Food is for energy. Flavor is for rich people."
I fell silent, processing that. A world with a class divide so harsh that even basic seasoning was a symbol of wealth. The poor weren't just poor; they were sentenced to a life without taste, driven into the forests to survive while the rich hoarded everything, even the simple joy of a good meal.
My curiosity got the better of me again. "What are we, exactly? Our species, what is it called?"
Sera stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face me, her ears twitching with suspicion. "What do you mean, 'what are we'? You don't know?" Her blue eyes narrowed. "We're Lagomorphs. Are you okay?"
I felt a flush of panic. A stupid, rookie mistake. I quickly tried to cover for it. "I, uh… I hit my head. Recently," I stammered, tapping the side of my head for effect. "My memory is a little… hazy. Things are coming back in bits and pieces."
She stared at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. I could see the suspicion warring with her desperation. Finally, her need for my help won out. She gave a short, sharp nod, but I could tell she would be watching me more closely now.
"There are four of us," she said, turning and continuing to walk. "My three younger sisters and me. We're all that's left."
We walked on in silence for a few more minutes, the only sound the rustling of leaves under our feet. Finally, she stopped and pointed towards a cleverly hidden crevice between some moss-covered boulders, almost completely obscured by a thicket of ferns.
"We're here," she whispered, her voice a fragile mix of soaring hope and heart-stopping fear. "My sisters are in there."