The scent of baking bread woke So-young before dawn. She met into Lune et Soleil's kitchen to find Great-Auntie already focused wile working on dough, her wrinkled hands moving with the precision like a master watchmaker.
"Up already?" The old woman didn't look up from her work. "Good. We're making your uncle's pain au son today."
So-young's breath caught. Seong-ho's recipe—the one he'd created for Claire, with bran from Marseille wheat and honey from Provence. The one he'd supposedly taken to his grave.
Jeong's mist curled around the mixing bowl, shimmering like heat waves over summer pavement.
The Market's Farewell Symphony
Marseille's Noailles Market buzzed with its usual chaotic energy. Dae-ho bolted between stalls, bargaining for last-minute souvenirs with his terrible French.
"Deux euros!" he insisted, waving a crumpled bill at a spice vendor.
"Cinq, petit malfrat!" the vendor shot back, though his eyes crinkled with amusement.
So-young lingered at a fromagerie, inhaling the pungent aroma of aged cheeses. The shopkeeper—a woman with Claire's dark curls—offered her a sliver of Brie de Meaux.
"Pour la jolie boulangère," she winked.
The cheese melted on So-young's tongue, rich and earthy. She'd miss this.
The Secret of the Last Loaf
Back at the patisserie, Great-Auntie revealed the true purpose of Seong-ho's recipe.
"Not just bread," she muttered, kneading furiously. "A message. The bran—"
A knock interrupted their conversation. Taehyun stood in the doorway, sunlight haloing his disheveled hair. In his hands, a basket of peaches.
"My grandfather's orchards," he said by way of explanation. "For the... whatever you're baking."
Great-Auntie sniffed. "Peaches in pain au son? Heresy." But she took them anyway.
As they worked side by side—So-young shaping loaves, Taehyun slicing fruit—Jeong's mist swirled around their wrists like twin bracelets.
Twilight at Vallon des Auffes
The fishing boats rocked gently in the cove as So-young and Taehyun shared the first warm slice.
"Strange," Taehyun mused, catching peach juice on his thumb. "Tastes like..."
"Home," So-young finished.
Because it did—the nutty bran like Seoul's autumn air, the honey like her mother's tea, the peaches like...
Like the orchard in that faded photo of Seong-ho and Chairman Kang's father.
Jeong materialized fully for the first time in days, his fox form solid as he nosed the remaining loaf. A single tear—or maybe seawater—splashed onto the crust.
The Overnight Ferry
Moonlight painted silver trails across the Mediterranean as the Han family boarded the night ferry to Barcelona, where their flight home awaited.
So-young leaned against the railing, Claire's notebook pressed to her chest. Beneath the recipes, she'd found something else—a train ticket from Marseille to Paris, dated the day before Seong-ho died.
One way.
Jeong's mist merged with the sea spray, whispering words only she could hear:
"Not the end. Just the next rise."
As Marseille's lights faded behind them, Dae-ho appeared with two paper cups of chocolat chaud.
"To next time," he said, uncharacteristically solemn.
Somewhere in the dark water below, So-young imagined she saw twin foxes—one gold, one silver—racing the waves toward home.