It was late. I was wiping down the counter. The last customer had left an hour ago. Al had gone upstairs.
Pizza Cat was doing his nightly patrol of the back alley. I heard the bell. Not the ring of a casual entry. A single clear note, like she'd touched it with exactly the right amount of force.
Deliberate. Intentional. The kind of sound that said I'm here on purpose, pay attention. She was in the doorway. Grey cloak.
Hood up. Same as before. Same fabric that drank the light instead of reflecting it. The same stillness that made her look carved out of the dark.
She didn't step inside. Just stood there, framed against the dark street, the lantern light from the pizzeria spilling past her into the night. Her shadow stretched long across my floor. I could smell the night on her — damp cobblestones, cold air, something floral I couldn't place. "We're closed," I said. "I know." She didn't move.
I set down my rag. "You want something?" "I want you to listen." Her voice was tired. Not old — she didn't sound old. But tired in a way that went deeper than a bad night's sleep.
Like she'd been tired for years and had given up pretending otherwise. The kind of tired that settles in your bones and makes a home there. "I'm listening." She was silent for a moment. Then: "Be careful with the food you make." I waited. That was it. "Be careful with the food you make," I repeated.
"That's your advice? You came all the way here, stood in my doorway, and that's what you've got?" "Not everyone who tastes it will be grateful." The words landed in my chest like stones. "What's that supposed to mean?" She shifted her weight. The cloak rustled. I caught a glimpse of her jaw, her chin.
Young. Maybe my age. Or close to it. "It means that food made the way you make it leaves a mark. People notice. People remember. And not all of them remember fondly." "Who are you?" "Someone who made the same mistake you're making." I stepped around the counter. Took a few steps toward her. She didn't back away.
Didn't tense up. Just watched me approach with an expression I couldn't read. "There were others," I said. "Before me." She didn't answer. "Velysara told me about them. Three of them. From somewhere else. Like me." Her eyes flickered. The first crack in the mask. "Velysara talks too much." "She said you made mistakes. That the first one tried to change things. That the second one tried to hide. That the third one—" "The third one is dead." The words hung in the air. I stopped walking. Three feet between us now.
Close enough to see the texture of her cloak. The way her hands were hidden in the folds. "Velysara said a flour explosion. Is that true?" She didn't answer. "How did he die?" She looked at me. Really looked. Her eyes were pale.
Grey or blue — hard to tell in the dim light. "The same way you'll die if you keep cooking like you don't belong here." I felt my pulse in my throat. "You came through a gate," I said. "Same as them." A long silence. "I was born here," she said. "But I walked through the gate a long time ago. Came back through before it closed. You're not the only one who's crossed between worlds." "And?" "And then they died. Because someone found out. Because someone decided they didn't like what they'd brought with them." She stepped back. One foot into the street. "There are people in this city who remember what happened to the first arrivals. There are people who would rather forget. And there are people who would do anything to make sure it never happens again." "Who? Tell me who." She shook her head. "Be careful with the food you make, Paul." "Wait—" "I can't." She turned. Walked into the darkness.
I followed her to the door. Stood in the frame. Watched the empty street swallow her. The lantern light pooled on the cobblestones.
A dog barked somewhere far away. The wind picked up a scrap of paper and carried it into a gutter. She was gone. I stood there for a long time.
Heart pounding. Hands gripping the doorframe. A former transmigrator. Or the child of one.
Someone who knew what happened to the others. Someone who was warning me — not threatening, warning — to keep my head down. But her eyes. When she talked about the third one.
She knew him. I was sure of it. Maybe more than knew him. I closed the door.
Locked it. Leaned against it. The pizzeria was quiet. The oven ticking.
The last ember was glowing in the firebox. I could hear my own breathing, too loud in the silence. Pizza Cat scratched at the back door. I let him in.
He rubbed against my ankle and then wandered off toward his bowl, unimpressed by my existential dread. I looked at the chalkboard menu. My handwriting. My recipes.
My world, spelled out in toppings and prices. The same world that had killed three people before me. The same world that had taken someone she loved. The door she'd walked through.
The threshold she wouldn't cross. She'd stood right there, three feet from me, and told me to be careful. Not to stop. Not to run.
Just to be careful. Like she knew I wouldn't listen anyway. Like she'd known other Pauls in other lifetimes and watched them all make the same choices. I splashed cold water on my face.
Stared at myself in the small mirror above the sink. Same face. Same tired eyes. Same stupid stubbornness staring back. "Be careful with the food you make," I whispered.
The words echoed off the tile. I went to bed but didn't sleep. Just lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering who she'd lost. And wondering if I'd meet someone who'd say the same thing about me someday.