The house was quiet, almost eerily so, save for the occasional creak of polished floors under the weight of Julia's restless steps. Khalil had been gone for a week, and already the emptiness in the halls felt heavier than the furniture around her. She paused by the window, the fading sunlight casting stripes across the room, and let out a slow breath. Two months stretched ahead of her—a blank canvas, a vast horizon of unknowns.
She had expected loneliness. She had expected the quiet. But what she hadn't expected was the strange weight of freedom, the way it pressed against her chest like an invisible hand, asking for direction, for purpose. She had no routine now. No expectations from anyone. Khalil was gone, and for the first time, she was truly on her own.
Her fingers wrapped around a warm cup of tea that Adeline, the middle-aged cook, had left on the kitchen counter. The aroma of jasmine and roasted leaves curled around her senses. Adeline had been efficient that morning—silent, purposeful, moving through the kitchen like a conductor of a symphony Julia was only just learning to hear. She had left before Julia could offer any thanks, and Julia had sat with the cup in her hands, staring at the steam twisting into the sunlight.
A thought flickered in her mind, tiny but persistent: she needed something to do. To survive two months without succumbing to anxiety, without letting fear eat at her, she needed a project. Something tangible, something that would leave her with proof that she could do more than just wait.
Cooking.
She had never been allowed to cook at home—not really. Her father had insisted on tutors, lessons, and preparation for a life of influence, wealth, and control. Cooking had been considered frivolous, unnecessary. But here, in this quiet house, free from the weight of her father's expectations, cooking felt like the perfect challenge.
With a quiet resolve, she stepped into the kitchen. Adeline was there, slicing vegetables with smooth, precise movements. The scent of garlic and onions sizzling in a pan made Julia's stomach twist in both hunger and anticipation.
"Miss Julia," Adeline said, glancing up with a small, polite smile. "I thought you might come by. Are you hungry?"
Julia shook her head, though her stomach protested with a low growl. "Not exactly," she said carefully. "I… I was thinking maybe you could teach me to cook."
Adeline paused mid-chop, her brow slightly arched. "Teach you?" she asked, her voice calm but firm. "Cooking is not simply following steps. It requires patience, attention, respect for ingredients… and humility. Are you ready for that?"
Julia nodded, more firmly than she expected. "Yes. I think I am. I want to learn."
---
Adeline handed her an apron, which Julia fumbled to tie around her waist. It smelled faintly of soap and rosemary. Her reflection in the polished fridge door made her blink—she looked absurd in it, but determined. She could do this. She had to.
The first lesson began with tteokbokki, one of the simpler dishes in Korean cuisine—but deceptively tricky for a novice. Adeline demonstrated methodically: soaking the rice cakes, preparing the spicy-sweet sauce, sautéing vegetables to the perfect softness. Julia watched intently, her eyes darting between Adeline's hands and the pan.
"Remember," Adeline said, "cooking is as much about feeling as it is about technique. Smell the ingredients, listen to the sizzle, feel the texture of the sauce."
Julia nodded, committing the instructions to memory, but as soon as she tried to replicate the steps, disaster struck.
The sauce burned. A sharp, acrid smell filled the kitchen. Julia coughed violently, waving a towel in front of her face. Her first attempt at stirring the rice cakes resulted in one of them flying across the counter and landing with a splat.
"Oh no!" she cried, her cheeks flaming red. "I… I'm sorry!"
Adeline said nothing, merely shook her head slightly, a hint of amusement playing at the corner of her mouth. Julia's fumbling continued: too much sugar, sauce that was too thick, rice cakes sticking to the pan like glue.
By the time the dish was finally plated, it was edible—but far from perfect. Julia took a cautious bite and grimaced slightly. It was spicy, sweet, chewy… and a tiny bit burnt. But it was hers. Her hands had made it. She swallowed, feeling a spark of pride ignite inside her chest.
"Not bad for a first try," Adeline said finally, her voice softer than Julia expected. "You'll improve. You'll learn patience."
---
The next morning, Julia woke to sunlight spilling across her floor again. She rose, stretching, and made her way to the kitchen, where the faint scent of garlic and soy lingered in the air. Adeline had left a new recipe on the counter: japchae, stir-fried glass noodles with vegetables and beef.
Julia studied the instructions carefully. She chopped, stirred, and sautéed with meticulous attention. The dish was slightly overcooked, noodles sticking together in clumps, but she felt satisfaction bubble up inside her. She could do this. She was learning. She was growing.
---
By the end of the week, Julia could handle several dishes: kimchi pancakes, bulgogi, even a rudimentary bibimbap. Her confidence grew alongside her skills. Cooking became not just a distraction, but a statement—a demonstration of her independence, her ability to survive and thrive without waiting for Khalil or anyone else.
And yet, the quiet house was not entirely empty. One afternoon, the door opened to reveal a young woman with sharp eyes and a cool expression. Nephis, Adeline's daughter. Julia immediately misjudged her, assuming—without much reason—that Nephis was Khalil's ex. The sharp glances, the casual but piercing remarks, the way she lingered near Khalil's personal effects—all of it suggested jealousy, intrigue, and possible rivalry.
The first encounter was brief, tense, and awkward, but it left Julia on edge. Even as she chopped vegetables for dinner, her mind kept replaying Nephis' sharp tone, wondering what her presence truly meant.
Cooking had been supposed to calm her. It had been supposed to center her. Yet the arrival of Nephis reminded her that life—even in a quiet, sunlit kitchen—was never entirely predictable.