The sun had barely risen over Cindres when Jinn tied back her hair and stepped into the kitchen.
The room was small, more a corner alcove than a proper kitchen. A firebrick stove, a narrow table, shelves filled with mismatched jars of grain, and a stack of chipped clay bowls. Everything smelled faintly of ash and herbs.
She set down a shallow basket of vegetables from yesterday's market trip. A few root tubers. Some spring greens. Two eggs-precious ones. She took a breath, rolled her sleeves, and got to work.
"Alright," she muttered. "No fridge, no rice cooker, no salt packets. Guess it's me, fire, and hope."
A knife in hand, she chopped carefully. The vegetables were tougher than she liked, but manageable. The eggs, she handled like glass.
Her mind drifted as she worked.
> "Back then, I cooked for myself every day... cheap meals after overtime, little tricks to stretch leftovers. Never thought that skill would matter after death."
The pan sizzled. A small fire flared. The scent of crisping tubers rose up, smoky and clean.
She stirred gently.
> "This world doesn't even know what soy sauce is. Or vinegar. Or even coffee. Gods, I miss coffee."
She sighed through her nose. No complaints. Just facts.
After plating the food, she sat at the narrow table and took a slow bite.
> "...Could be worse."
---
Later that morning, she stood again behind the front desk.
Cindres Guild Hall bustled as always. Adventurers stomped in and out, loud and busy. Reports flew between hands. Someone cursed about a failed job. Another laughed too loudly.
Jinn worked silently, eyes scanning forms, stamping, passing scrolls. Efficient. Calm.
But now and then, her gaze flicked to her side bag.
Inside, neatly wrapped in cloth, was a small lunch box.
Her lunch.
Made by her own hands.
She felt oddly proud of that.
> "At least I can eat something real. Something warm. No offense to tavern stew, but if I ever eat boiled root again, I'll riot."
---
Evening came.
Jinn locked the reception ledger, dipped her quill one last time, and stepped out of the hall.
The air was cool. Quiet. The streets bathed in orange dusk.
She passed a young boy arguing with a butcher. A dog sniffing stale bread. A cart with leaking barrels. Life went on.
When she reached her home, she dropped her satchel, changed clothes, then stepped out back with her wooden sword.
Routine.
A few slow swings.
Not for battle.
Just to stay aware. Just in case.
> "The moment you think you're safe is when you've already lost."
Her father had said that once.
And somehow, she still believed him.
---
Night fell.
She sat at her table, polishing the frame of her eyeglass.
No lenses. No glow. Just faint appraisal magic, barely enough to be useful.
She smiled.
> "It helped me spot that sour meat yesterday. Still worth it."
She slipped it on.
> "Thanks, old man."
And with that, she blew out the candle and let the quiet take her.
The night was simple. Still. Peaceful.
And for now, that was enough.