It began with an unexpected knock.
Not the light, curious kind that Mika used when he visited for snacks. This one was firm. Purposeful.
Noura wiped her hands on her apron and opened the kitchen door to find Alder Hawthorne standing tall, arms crossed, with a look that mixed authority with anticipation.
"Good morning, Miss Noura," he said with a warm nod.
"Chief Alder," she said, stepping aside. "Come in. I hope everything's all right?"
He chuckled. "Better than all right. That Spring Harvest feast you led? It hasn't left anyone's mind—or palate. Which is why we'd like to talk to you."
"We?" she echoed, raising a brow.
Lira, Garrick, Bram, Agnes Thornbrook, and even Elsa shuffled in behind him.
Noura stared. "Did I do something?"
"No," said Lira. "You did something wonderful."
Elsa blurted, "We want you to open a food stall!"
"A proper eatery," Alder clarified. "A permanent one."
Noura blinked. "Wait—what?"
Bram stepped forward. "You see, travelers pass near Elderwood all the time. Merchants, farmers, scholars. But they don't stop. We've got good people, fine produce, but nothing that makes them stay."
Agnes nodded. "Your cooking could change that."
"We've even set aside a plot just near the square," Alder added. "It used to be the old herb seller's shed. It's yours if you want it. We'll help you build it."
"But why me?" Noura asked softly. "I'm not from here. I haven't trained with your traditions. I'm still learning your ingredients."
"Exactly," said Lira. "That's what makes your food special. It's new. It's magic."
Noura looked at them all—smiling, hopeful, proud.
She felt a warmth bloom in her chest, hesitant but bright.
"Give me a day," she whispered.
They all nodded. Then, one by one, they left her kitchen.
That night, Noura couldn't sleep.
She walked barefoot to the little bench outside the kitchen and stared up at the sky. The stars in this world shimmered brighter, more curious somehow. She hugged her knees, remembering the dream she had buried in Jakarta—an unnamed longing that once lived between sticky rice paper notebooks and late-night recipe binges.
She had never owned a restaurant.
She had never believed she could.
Until now.
***
The next morning, she walked straight to the old herb shed.
It was small, tucked near the main square, with a crooked door and ivy curling around its sides. The roof needed patching. The inside smelled of dried leaves and sun.
But when she stepped in, her imagination did the rest.
A wooden counter. Hanging baskets of root vegetables. Shelves lined with spices. A stove at the back. A chalkboard menu. A table or two for those who didn't want to eat on the go.
This could work.
This could be home.
***
The morning sun cast golden streaks across the village as Noura stood before Chief Alder's dwelling, her heart pounding. She knocked firmly, her mind still buzzing with visions of the little herb shed transformed into a humble eatery.
The door creaked open, revealing Chief Alder—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a beard streaked with silver and eyes that held the weight of many winters. He raised an eyebrow. "Noura. You're up early."
She took a steadying breath. "I have a request."
Inside, seated across from the chief at a worn wooden table, Noura laid out her plan.
"I will accept your offers to open a small eatery."
Chief Alder stroked his beard, considering. "And what would you serve?"
"Everything from here," she said without hesitation.
"Wild shallots, forest garlic, the mushrooms we foraged yesterday. The berries, the roots, the herbs. Even the yogurt Elsa's family makes. I'll use only what the village provides."
A flicker of interest passed over his face.
"You'd rely entirely on our harvests?" Alder asked
She nodded.
"I have no coin to buy supplies. But if the village lends me ingredients—at a fair, low price—I'll turn them into something worth more. And when I earn enough, I'll repay every bit."
Silence stretched between them. Then, to her surprise, Chief Alder chuckled.
"You cooked a feast from scraps yesterday. I suppose it's only fair to see what you can do with a real chance." He leaned forward.
"The shed is yours. And for the first season, the hunters and foragers will supply you at half the usual trade rate."
Noura's chest swelled with gratitude. "Thank you. I won't waste this."
***
They called it "Noura's Kitchen."
Simple. Honest.
Within a week, half the village had chipped in. Garrick handled repairs and built a sturdy fire-safe stove. Bram designed collapsible benches and a front window. Agnes dried flowers to hang by the counter. Mika painted a wonky but charming sign with a chicken wearing a chef's hat.
Noura, meanwhile, worked on the most important thing: the menu.
She wanted food that was quick to serve, easy to carry, but bursting with flavor.
And so she turned to the one thing Jakarta had always given her.
Street food.
Not fancy. Not formal. But alive. Delicious. Joyful.
Her first menu had three stars:
Bakwan Jungle Fritters — crispy fried balls of grated jungle root, starbean sprouts, and wild scallion, spiced with saltflower and sunroot, served with forest-lime chili sauce.
Tahu Isi (Stuffed Leaf Tofu) — soft bean curd filled with stir-fried vegetables and mashed spiced tubers, wrapped in giant edible leaves, then lightly pan-seared.
Sate Ayam Elderwood — skewers of marinated forest hen grilled over hot coals, basted with thick sweetberry-sap glaze, served with mashed stone-nut sauce.
Nasi Goreng Ember Rice — stir-fried grain rice tossed with forest egg, sunroot oil, diced smoked hen, and pickled greens, topped with crisp shallots and served with wild herb relish.
Sweetmoon Martabak — thick folded pancake made with fermented flour batter, stuffed with molten sweetfruit paste, forest honey, and crushed saltflower beans, served warm in banana leaves.
Each dish was a nod to her past, built from the world she now lived in.
She practiced for days, testing every proportion, every cooking time. The divine tools hummed with encouragement. She adjusted her chili base to better suit local palates. She thickened the peanut-like sauce with crushed root instead of imported nuts.
The old herb shed buzzed with quiet intensity as Noura labored from dawn till dusk. The divine burner glowed steadily in the corner, its warmth a constant companion as she tested and tweaked each recipe.
"More fermented berry paste in the sambal," she muttered, adjusting the balance of sweet and heat. The villagers preferred milder flavors than the fiery Jakarta street food she remembered, so she steeped her chili substitute in herb oil to soften its bite.
Her biggest challenge came with the peanut sauce. Without actual peanuts, she roasted starchy tubers from the forest, then pounded them into a thick paste with garlic and a touch of honey. After three failed batches—one too bitter, one too gluey—she finally achieved a rich, creamy texture that clung perfectly to grilled vegetables.
***
Word of Noura's project had spread like wildfire through the village. On the fourth morning, she arrived to find Lira already waiting outside the shed, arms crossed.
"You didn't think you'd do this alone, did you?"
The huntress jerked her chin toward the overgrown ivy.
"That needs clearing before customers start coming."
Before Noura could respond, a chorus of voices rose behind them. Mika emerged from the morning mist carrying two buckets of whitewash, followed by a dozen villagers bearing tools. Garrick hauled salvaged timber for countertops. Elderly Mistress Vara brought woven reed mats for seating. Even the children came, scrubbing years of dust from the walls with bristle brushes.
As the shed transformed around her—walls brightened, shelves reinforced, the crooked door rehung—Noura stood frozen near her bubbling saucepans. The lump in her throat had nothing to do with chili fumes.
At sunset, when the others had left, Noura found Lira and Mika lingering by the newly built counter.
"We want in," Mika said simply, running a hand over the smooth wood.
"Lira can handle front-of-house when she's not hunting. I'll manage preserves and prep."
Noura's wooden spoon clattered against her pot. "But your weaving commissions—"
"Will wait." Mika's usually soft voice held steel.
"This is the first new thing our village has had in years."
Lira smirked, testing the weight of a freshly carved serving spoon.
"Besides, someone needs to keep you from over-spicing everything."
On the eve of opening, Noura stood alone in the completed space. Moonlight streamed through the new shutters, painting silver stripes across:
The chalkboard menu (now featuring five perfected dishes)
Jars of prepped ingredients lining the shelves
The divine burner, its glow dimmed to embers
She touched the countertop where Garrick had secretly carved tiny herb sprigs along the edge. Ran her fingers over the linen curtains Mika had woven from discarded fishing nets. The village lived in every nail, every stitch.
Outside, the wind carried the scent of turned earth from nearby fields—the same soil that grew her ingredients, the same hands that would break bread here tomorrow.
Noura exhaled.
Ready or not, the hearth would wake at dawn.
And finally, one cool morning, she flipped the OPEN sign.
***
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