The morning began with promise.
The square of Elderwood glistened with early dew, and the air carried a crispness that suggested good fortune. Lanterns swayed gently on their hooks, catching the morning light like amber-glass pendants. Birds chirped their simple songs, and merchants rolled their carts into place. The village was alive, just as it had been on festival days.
And for the first time, it would be alive with something new.
Noura stood at the threshold of her newly finished stall—Noura's Kitchen—her apron straight, her scarf freshly tied, her satchel of divine tools polished until they gleamed like obsidian in the dawn. The wooden sign that Mika had painted hung above the front window: a bold drawing of a smiling chicken wearing a chef's hat, next to the words Noura's Kitchen: Food from Far and Close to the Heart.
Inside, her food was ready.
The satay skewers, basted in sweetberry glaze, rested on a warm tray. The Ember Fried Rice sat in a wide clay bowl, steaming with crushed herbs and wild greens. A stack of Sweetmoon Martabak slices—her rendition of the pancake she missed most—were dusted with forest sugar and arranged like golden crescents. Jungle fritters, leaf tofu wraps, and more sat beside them, each labeled with hand-drawn signs.
It looked perfect.
She had woken before dawn, cooked with calm, and lit the lanterns with trembling hope.
This was her dream. Her second chance. The culmination of the love the village had shown her.
So why, she wondered, as the sun crept steadily higher, was no one stopping to eat?
***
The first hour passed in quiet anticipation.
Lira helped scrub the counter while Mika placed small flower vases along the ledge. Noura stood at the stove, pretending to adjust the flame under a pot that didn't need tending. From across the square, the scent of warm sugar and grilled meat curled into the air like an invitation.
But people kept walking.
They passed with curious glances, brows furrowed at the menu, pausing only to adjust their baskets or children.
No one approached the counter.
"Maybe they're waiting for lunchtime," Lira said softly.
Mika, ever hopeful, shouted cheerfully, "Try our sweet pancake! And rice with spice! Miss Noura made it with magic!"
But even the children who heard him giggled and kept running.
Noura's heart beat louder than the fire crackling beneath her.
***
By midday, the village square buzzed with activity. Merchants from neighboring towns displayed woven cloth and dried herbs. Musicians plucked soft tunes from reed strings. A traveling storyteller set up a makeshift platform and began to gather a crowd.
But still—no one came to eat.
Noura watched as a group of adventurers—three men and a woman in dusty travel gear—paused near her stall. One of them sniffed the air and tilted his head toward the sign.
"That the new stall?" he asked.
"Looks fancy," said another. "What's a 'martabak'?"
"Sounds foreign."
"I heard the cook's not from here."
"Think it's safe?"
Noura stood frozen, just behind the counter. She heard every word. The adventurers moved on.
A sharp wind swept past, catching the edge of a paper menu and ripping it from the stall.
***
In the next hour, two women from Southvale stepped up to read the sign.
"What's 'Sweetmoon Martabak'?" one asked.
"A pancake," Noura said gently, stepping forward. "Stuffed with sweetfruit and wild honey. Very soft. Would you like to try a sample?"
The women exchanged glances.
"We don't usually eat sweet in the middle of the day," one said.
"Looks heavy," said the other.
And they turned away.
Noura forced herself to stay still. Her hands gripped the edge of the stall counter.
***
The only person who came close was Bram.
He arrived with a wooden box of nails slung over his shoulder. He didn't speak, just looked at the untouched dishes, then at Noura.
Then he said simply, "Leave the rice out too long, and it dries."
She nodded. "I know."
He gave her a look—not unkind, but not pitying either. Then he walked on.
***
By late afternoon, Noura's feet ached. The sweet pancakes had gone cold. The skewers had dried out under the heat lamp. She had restirred the rice twice, out of habit more than necessity.
Lira returned with two cups of herbal tea. She offered one with a weak smile.
"Still no one," Noura murmured.
"They're unsure," Lira said. "You're new. The food is new. People fear new."
"They didn't fear it during the festival," Noura replied bitterly. "They loved the feast."
"That was different. A celebration. It made them feel safe."
"And now I make them feel unsafe?"
"Uncertain," Lira corrected. "Which they confuse with danger."
***
Just before sunset, a small group from another village stopped in front of the stall. They looked travel-worn and hungry. One of the women, cloaked in dusty green, approached with a questioning look.
"You," she said, eyes narrowing. "Are you the one who made that food during the Spring feast?"
"Yes," Noura said, forcing a hopeful smile.
"You're not from here."
"No. I came from… far away."
The woman sniffed. "Your food smells like sugar. Not stew. Not roast. What is this food?"
"It's from my home," Noura replied. "Food meant to bring comfort. To be eaten with hands. To be shared."
The woman leaned closer.
"Is it safe?" she asked.
Noura blinked. "Of course."
"Does it have spices that will upset my belly?"
"No more than any stew or pie."
The woman sniffed again. "I'll pass. We've come too far to gamble with dinner."
She left.
***
Noura didn't close the stall. She just stopped cooking.
She stood still as the sky turned lavender, and the stalls across the square dimmed one by one. The lanterns above her flickered against the cool evening wind.
Mika sat silently near the door, legs swinging from a bench.
Lira wiped down the counter, her motions slow.
The food remained untouched.
The last of the daylight bled into dusk, and the village square emptied like a bowl tipped sideways. The storyteller packed up his tales, the merchants rolled their unsold wares into cloth bundles, and the laughter of children faded into the rustling trees at the edge of Elderwood.
Noura's Kitchen stood as an island of warmth in the cooling dark. The lanterns still burned, though their light now felt hollow. The skewers had stiffened. The martabak's golden sheen had dulled.
Lira touched Noura's shoulder.
"We should take the food back. It'll keep for tomorrow."
Noura didn't move. Her fingers traced the edge of a clay bowl, still half-full of Ember Fried Rice. The crushed herbs had settled into the grains, their fragrance muted.
Tomorrow.
The word sat like a stone in her chest. Would tomorrow be different? Or would the village keep walking past, their curiosity smothered by hesitation?
Mika, uncharacteristically quiet, tugged at her sleeve.
"Miss Noura… maybe we need a bigger sign?"
She forced a smile for him.
"Maybe."
But she knew it wasn't the sign..
Mika stacked the sample plates with uncharacteristic quiet.
"Maybe… maybe we give free bites first? So they're not scared?"
Noura patted his head. "Maybe."
It wasn't the food.
But she knew fear wasn't the problem.
It was her.
It was the quiet, relentless not-knowing—the way Elderwood's people had welcomed her feast during the festival but now eyed her stall like it was a riddle they refused to solve.
***
The scrape of boots broke the silence.
A traveler stood at the counter—hooded, face shadowed, their cloak smelling of pine and distant roads. They didn't speak, just scanned the trays of cold food before picking up a discarded skewer.
Noura opened her mouth to warn them it was stale—
The stranger took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
"Good," they grunted.
Then they flipped a single copper coin onto the counter. It spun, wobbled, settled.
"Not their fault," they said, nodding toward the dark village. "They don't know what they're refusing."
Noura's throat tightened.
The stranger walked away, their cloak vanishing into the night.
The coin gleamed under the lantern light.
***
That night, Noura sat in her cottage, knees pulled to her chest, a single bowl of fried rice in her lap. She didn't eat it.
She stared at the divine knife glowing faintly in the corner.
"What's the point of tools," she whispered, "if no one will try what they help me make?"
No answer came.
Only the sound of her own quiet breathing.
***
Later, she opened her grandmother's recipe book.
She flipped to a blank page.
But instead of writing a recipe, she wrote a thought:
"I thought if I cooked with my heart, they'd understand. But hearts don't always speak the same language."
She stared at it. Then added:
"Today, I met silence. I cooked for a village that would not come. I waited for a kindness that did not arrive."
"Maybe tomorrow will be different."
She closed the book.
Then she let herself cry.
Not because of pride.
Not because of hunger.
But because she had tried. She had poured her soul into warmth and spice and tenderness.
And the world had turned its back.
Yet even through her tears, she remembered something her mother once said, years ago in their narrow Jakarta kitchen, when her first attempt at rendang burned beyond saving.
"Sometimes, the first dish is meant to fail," she'd said. "So the second knows how to survive."
Noura wiped her face.
The bowl of fried rice beside her steamed faintly in the dark.
It still smelled good.
Tomorrow, she would try again.
But tonight, she would mourn.
And that was okay.
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