The whispers started before Marron even reached her cart that morning.
"—heard she made Aldric cry into his pasta—"
"—unregulated memory magic, they're saying—"
"—seven days to prove she's not dangerous—"
Marron pulled her cloak tighter as she passed the community board where the Guild Evaluation notice fluttered in the morning breeze.
Other vendors gave her a wide berth, as if whatever had gotten her in trouble might be contagious.
"Well, I showed him all right," she said to Lucy, who shifted nervously from blue to gray. The alchemist's silver coin still felt cold in her pocket—payment for the very dish that had landed her here.
How am I going to earn money for the pantry pull now?
She felt a warm paw on her shoulder.
"One bad day doesn't mean it'll last forever, chef."
Marron nodded and tried her best to stay optimistic, but she couldn't help feeling like it was going to be a slow day.
+
The guild evaluator didn't help at all. A stern-faced woman stood across Marron's cart, giving her a clear view. Her clipboard was ready and the pen was poised like a weapon.
Potential customers who approached noticed her official robes and quickened their step past Marron's food cart.
She sighed and tried to focus on her mise en place. Marron was still selling food and it was a beautiful crisp Frostfall morning, but her hands shook slightly as she diced vegetables.
If I have an uncontrolled emotional surge in front of her, it's over for me. How am I ever going to reco--
"Are you the memory cook?"
The voice was barely above a whisper. Marron looked up to find a woman in mourning dress, her face etched with the kind of grief that had settled into bone.
"Y-yes, good morning!" Marron said gratefully. "What would you like?"
She looked older than her actual age, like life had drained her of all joy. There was a gold ring on her finger, and she fidgeted with it every now and then. "Can I order something off the menu?"
Lady, I'm lucky you're ordering anything at all, especially with the evaluator behind you!
"Yes. I'll try to fulfill it if I can."
"Do you think you can make a soup that'll help me let go? I love my husband dearly, but...his memory feels like it's weighing me down instead of accompanying me."
Marron's heart squeezed. This was exactly the kind of request that had landed her in trouble—but looking at this woman's exhausted face, she couldn't bring herself to care about the evaluator's clipboard.
"Yes," she said softly. "I think I can help with that. It'll take me a few minutes to prepare something special."
One dish, one emotion, She reminded herself, Balen's advice echoing in her mind. Don't focus on the sadness, she's sad enough. What she's really looking for is closure. Light release instead of heavy grief.
"What was his favorite season?" Marron asked, already reaching for her gentler ingredients.
"Winter."
"Ah, I have just the thing."
This time, she wanted to make a recipe her mom ate when she was sick--chicken congee, from her father.
According to her mom, her dad was a brilliant chef who worked overseas, and sent her money for Marron.
So there was that, at least.
She never really knew him because he hadn't been there.
The most she remembered was a tall man with dark hair and a deep voice, lulling her to sleep when she was seven.
Funny, Marron thought as she washed her remaining mana rice. We're both dealing with the weight of someone who left.
But where the widow's husband had left memories that felt too heavy, her father had left almost none at all—just this recipe, passed through her mother's hands like a gentle ghost.
Maybe that was exactly what the widow needed.
Not the absence of memory, but the lightness of it.
Marron let the mana rice simmer slowly, adding just enough winterroot broth to carry warmth without weight. She could feel her Flavor Pulse stirring, reaching tentatively toward the widow's grief.
But instead of allowing her power to reach like a tentacle, she tempered it into a blade, with a sharp point.
Careful, she told herself. Light touch. We want closure, not sorrow.
She shredded the frosthen chicken with gentle hands, thinking of her mother's voice: "Your father always said congee should taste like a hug from the inside." The guild evaluator's pen scratched against her clipboard, but Marron pushed the sound away.
She marinated the chicken with some oyster sauce, cornstarch, a cube of chicken flavoring, and some water.
Comfort doesn't mean bland. Gentle from beginning to end.
We want something that's easy to swallow, when the grief takes all of your strength away.
A pinch of crystal pepper.
A whisper of hearthginger for warmth.
And finally—the secret her mother had shared—two teaspoons of fish sauce, stirred in at the very end.
"Comfort isn't always sweet, but it's always good." she murmured, the words coming from some deep memory.
She sprinkled some cilantro on top, and it was ready.
"Shredded frosthen served on top of rice porridge, with some ginger and crystal pepper. I hope it brings you warmth."
+
It felt like the most natural thing in the world, serving someone food.
The widow gave her a little bow of thanks, and marveled at the rice porridge.
"It smells so clean. Nothing added just for the sake of it."
She lifted her spoon and blew on it before trying a bite.
Marron smiled.
"That's how I think food should be."
The widow's eyes widened and Marron felt sorrow and happiness radiate from her in real-time. She dug her spoon into the congee and kept eating, not saying a word.
The guild evaluator's pen scratched away, but she didn't care about it anymore.
+
When the widow finally set down her empty bowl, there were tears on her cheeks—but her shoulders had lost their rigid set.
"It doesn't hurt as much now," she said quietly, touching her wedding ring one last time before letting her hand fall to her lap. "I can feel him with me, but... lighter. Like he's walking beside me instead of on my back."
She pressed a silver coin into Marron's hand—warm, not cold like the alchemist's payment. "Thank you."
As the widow walked away with steadier steps, Marron felt a flutter of hope. Maybe she could do this. Maybe she could prove to the guild that her magic was helpful, not dangerous.
One down, six days to go.
But when she glanced at the guild evaluator, the woman wasn't writing notes of approval. Instead, she muttered just loud enough for Marron to hear: "Instinct, not skill. Uncontrolled emotional manipulation."
The pen scratched harsh marks across the clipboard.
Mokko appeared at her elbow, having watched the entire exchange. His usually gentle expression was troubled.
"That was beautiful work, Marron," he said quietly. "But you absorbed some of her grief, didn't you? I can see it in your eyes."
He placed a steadying paw on her shoulder. "You can't carry everyone else's pain. Not if you want to survive this week."