The second morning of fest prep began with something I hadn't felt in a long, long time:
Hope.
Not the delusional, fleeting kind that whispers of a better tomorrow. Not the "things will magically get better" kind that fools and children cling to. No, this was a different, more substantial kind of hope. It was the kind that comes from watching pure, unadulterated chaos slowly, stubbornly, transform into progress. It was the kind of hope forged in the fires of burnt pans and bruised egos. It was the quiet, steady warmth that stirs deep inside when you realize, against all odds, this might actually work.
I stepped onto our makeshift restaurant grounds in the eastern courtyard, and the scene before me was one of controlled, beautiful chaos. The air, once filled with the nervous energy of scattered students, was now thick with the rich, savory aroma of simmering broth and the sharp, clean scent of freshly chopped herbs.
