The smell of burnt oil clung to the air inside the small apartment. Li Wei sat cross-legged on the floor, watching his mother fumble with the flickering stove. The pan wobbled. The flame hissed. Everything felt... off.
"Li Wei, get me the soy sauce!" she called over the sizzle.
Without thinking, he stood, reached for the high shelf, and handed her the exact bottle she needed. His hand hadn't even trembled. His mother looked at him, puzzled.
"You've never helped in the kitchen before. How did you—"
"I don't know," he murmured.
The way his eyes moved around the kitchen—examining the warped wok, the dull knife, the unbalanced flame—felt strange. Not unfamiliar, but remembered. As if he had done this a thousand times before.
His mother stepped aside to answer a knock at the door. "Stir that for me," she said casually, thrusting the spatula into his hand.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the handle, it felt… right.
The pan responded to his wrist like it knew him. Vegetables flipped smoothly in the air. Oil kissed garlic in a rhythm. Salt, sugar, and vinegar fell into the pan, each at the exact second needed.
When his mother returned, she stopped dead in her tracks. The fragrance floating through the room wasn't hers. It was better. Deeper. Richer.
"You made this?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"I think so," Li Wei replied.
Later that night, sleep was restless. He dreamt of roaring flames, roaring crowds, and long wooden tables piled high with dishes no one could name. At the center stood a man—a chef dressed in ceremonial white, holding a black wok like a weapon.
The chef turned. It was him. Older. Stronger. Fearless.
Li Wei woke in a cold sweat. He walked to the mirror, staring into his reflection.
"I've done this before," he whispered. "But not in this life."
Something ancient stirred within him. Not just a memory. A calling.