Maya took a breath as if to say more, but a loud cheer erupted from the square. Someone had started a toast, followed by a clumsy, enthusiastic group howl that only the wolfkin could manage.
Marron and Maya both turned to look.
By the time Marron turned back, Maya was already stepping away.
"I'll tell you later," she said, brushing her fingers over the tail of her braid. Her eyes lingered on the silver spoon still clutched in Marron's hand.
"There are things about old cooking bloodlines that—"
Another howl cut her off. Maya's expression shifted, almost relieved by the interruption. "Enjoy the rest of the night, Chef."
Marron wanted to follow her, but something about Maya's retreat felt deliberate. Not secretive, just... not ready.
She looked down at the silver spoon in her hand.
The glow had faded, but warmth still pulsed through the metal—not her warmth. Something older.
Cooking bloodlines?
+
That night, Marron dreamt of kitchens.
Not hers.
Not even ones she recognized.
Some were vast open-air spaces filled with sunlight and the sharp sizzle of oil in copper pans. Others were carved deep into mountains, all flickering hearths and low voices humming work songs.
She even saw one deep underwater, where a mermaid stirred pots and chopped sea kelp on a coral cutting board.
In every kitchen, someone cooked with desperate love.
She saw a grandmother folding dumplings, whispering "twist, twist," in the same way her mother taught her. The woman's tears mixed with flour as soldiers marched past her window.
There was a young chef in a burning restaurant, still plating dishes. As the roof collapsed, he held out the spoon as far as his arm could reach, like it was something worth protecting.
A street vendor stirring soup with shaking hands, the last coins in her pocket already counted for tomorrow's ingredients.
A family preparing a pot of macaroni soup for a funeral, knowing their friends just wouldn't be able to cook in the middle of their grief.
And in every scene, the same silver spoon caught the light.
The same spoon.
Each cook had held it differently—some with reverence, others with the casual grip of daily use. But all of them had poured their heart into their food, seasoning hope with desperation, stirring love into every pot.
The dreams shifted.
Suddenly she was back in the Gastronomic Masters kitchen, smoke filling her lungs, her duck dish forgotten on the floor.
The day of the gas explosion was the worst and best day of her life.
But this time, someone else was there—a figure she couldn't quite see, holding the silver spoon.
"Every cook who dies with unfulfilled dreams leaves an echo," the figure whispered. "Some echoes find their way home."
+
Marron woke before dawn, her hand curled beneath her cheek, cradling the silver spoon like a lifeline.
She sat up slowly, no longer confused. The dreams hadn't felt like dreams—they'd felt like memories. Someone else's memories.
Lucy floated near the window, watching sunrise paint the sky in lavender and gold. She turned as Marron stirred, her usual morning hum softer than usual.
Mokko lay curled at the foot of the bed, but his ears were perked—alert despite his relaxed posture.
"Good morning," Marron whispered, voice hoarse. He grunted and scratched his left side before snuffling.
Ding.
She was a little shocked at the ping in her head. It wasn't the usual cheerful chime, but something much more serious.
I didn't even know system notifications could have a personality.
[Memory Residue Settling...]
[Artifact Recognition: Silver Spoon - Culinary Conduit]
Another pause. Longer this time.
[Emotional Resonance Detected: 847 Previous Users]
[Compatibility Assessment: EXCEPTIONAL]
[New Classification: Memory-Touched Chef]
Marron's breath caught. Eight hundred and forty-seven.
The notifications continued:
[Trait Unlocked: Ancestral Echoes]
You have inherited the emotional memories of chefs who used it before you. Every dish you create now carries the weight of generations, giving you enhanced effects--as long as you cook with genuine intent.
[Silver Spoon - Tier: LEGENDARY]
An artifact passed down from one unfulfilled chef to another. It adapts to each user's emotional signature.
Current Resonance: 97.3%
Special Effect: Dishes prepared with this spoon may channel the accumulated hopes and dreams of previous chefs.
[Warning: High emotional content detected. Recommend gradual exposure to prevent overwhelming sensory feedback.]
Marron stared at the notifications until they faded.
Her hands trembled as she turned the spoon over, studying it with new eyes. The silver was worn smooth in places where hundreds of hands had gripped it. Tiny scratches told stories she was only beginning to understand.
"Food-touched artifacts," she whispered. "Eight hundred chefs who died before they could finish their stories."
Lucy chimed softly—a sound that somehow conveyed both wonder and concern.
"I'm not just cooking my own food anymore, am I?" Marron looked at Lucy, then back at the spoon. "I'm carrying everyone who held this before me."
The weight of that responsibility should have been crushing.
Instead, it felt like coming home.
For the first time since her reincarnation, Marron understood why she was here.
I was brought back to help fulfill the dreams of other chefs that had been cut short. In Savoria, I'm bringing their hopes and dreams with me.
Chefs who died with recipes that have yet to be written.
It's a really tall order, but...maybe I can work toward it?
She held the spoon up to catch the morning light. It looked the same as always—simple, elegant, unremarkable.
But everything had changed.
Her path had been set the moment she'd picked up this spoon in her first life. She just hadn't known it yet.
Eight hundred and forty-seven dreams, she thought. And now mine makes eight hundred and forty-eight.
She wouldn't let them down.
+
In two hours, Marron was at her food cart, looking at each ingredient spread before her like an offering. She didn't have to be at the morning market yet--the
The morning market was still quiet, but she wasn't cooking for customers yet. This was something else—a test, maybe. Or a conversation.
She held the silver spoon, feeling its weight differently now. The metal seemed to hum with anticipation.
"What do you want me to make?" she whispered to it.
Nothing happened for a moment. Then, almost like a whisper in her mind, she felt the faintest impression: bread.
Not just any bread. Something comforting. Something that spoke of home and hope and the promise that tomorrow would be better.
Marron's hands moved without conscious thought, reaching for flour, for the small jar of honey she'd been saving, for the packet of yeast that always smelled like possibility. As she worked, kneading the dough with steady motions, she felt... company.
Not the overwhelming flood of memories from her dreams, but gentle guidance. A grandmother's hands showing her how to fold the dough just so. A baker's patience teaching her to wait for the perfect rise. A mother's love infusing every careful turn.
Lucy floated closer, her usual curiosity replaced by something like reverence. Mokko sat nearby, perfectly still except for his tail, which swayed in rhythm with Marron's kneading.
The bread that emerged from her small oven an hour later was perfect in a way that had nothing to do with technique. It was golden-brown and fragrant, with a crust that sang when she tapped it and a crumb that promised softness.
But more than that—it felt like every comfort food she'd ever tasted, every warm kitchen she'd ever stood in, every moment when food had meant love instead of work.
[Skill Evolution: Basic Baking → Ancestral Baking]
[Dish Created: Memory-Touched Comfort Bread - Grade A+]
[Special Effect: Provides deep emotional satisfaction and temporary resistance to despair]
She broke off a piece and tasted it, expecting the familiar system notification about flavor profiles and buffs.
Instead, she tasted stories.
The young mother who'd baked bread during wartime, stretching ingredients to feed her family. The baker who'd given away his last loaves as his shop burned around him. The chef who'd kneaded bread with tears in her eyes, knowing it would be her final batch.
All of them had poured their love into flour and water and hope. All of them lived on in this single loaf.
Marron sat down heavily on her cart's steps, the bread still warm in her hands.
"This is bigger than I thought," she said to Lucy and Mokko. "I'm not just a chef anymore. I'm... what am I?"
Mokko padded over and rested his heavy head against her knee—a gesture of comfort and solidarity. Lucy settled on her shoulder, pulsing with warm, steady light.
Whatever she was becoming, she wouldn't face it alone.