The scent of red bean buns shouldn't have made her cry.
But when the warm, yeasty aroma entering into So-young's bedroom, her small body shake with something deeper than memory. Her heart knew this smell before her mind remembered - the particular caramelized sweetness of her mother's secret recipe, lost when the Han kitchens switched to cheaper ingredients.
"Yuna-ya, you go wake her!" Her father's whisper carried like it always had - warm and deep, the voice that used to read her ledger books like bedtime stories.
A laugh. Bright. Unburdened.
Mother's laugh.
So-young's bare feet touched the floorboards before she could stop herself. The floor felt different below her toes - these were the original planks, before the fire. Before the replacements. Before everything.
The kitchen door swung open.
Morning light haloed her mother's silhouette as she balanced a tray of steaming buns. Flour dusted her forehead where she'd pushed back stray hairs. The sleeves of her jeogori were rolled up to reveal strong forearms - arms that would waste to sticks in a hospital bed, veins collapsing until nurses had to inject...
"Someone's awake early."
Her mother's smile crinkled the corners of her eyes - real crinkles, not the pain lines from later years. The tray clattered onto the low table as So-young crashed into her, small fists clutching the familiar fabric of her apron.
It still smelled of lavender.
Her mother's hands - warm and rough from kneading - came up to cradle her head. "Bad dream, my little chef?"
The petname shattered her.
Because in this timeline, she shouldn't know it yet.
In this timeline, her father hadn't lifted her onto the bakery counter. Hadn't let her shape her first loaf. Hadn't called her...
A shadow moved at the edge of vision.
Steam from the teapot started forming unnatural spirals, forming shapes no one can explain. A pointed muzzle. Delicate paws. Nine tails woven from rising heat.
Jeong watched from between worlds.
So-young's breath stopped as the spirit's form solidified just enough to nod towards the medicine shelf. There, between jars of ginger and mugwort, sat the unassuming blue tin of hwanggi powder. The fatigue remedy.
The first lie.
Her mother followed her gaze. "Ah! You're right, darling. Appa forgot his tonic again."
The fox spirit's ears flicked in approval as Yuna measured the golden powder. But So-young saw what her mother didn't - the faint black streaks marring the normally vibrant yellow.
Tainted.
Just like last time.
Her small hand shot out, knocking the spoon aside. Powder scattered across the table.
"Ya!" Her father laughed from the doorway, his arms full of firewood. "Since when do you hate Appa's medicine?"
Since she watched it accumulate in her mother's liver for years. Since she traced the receipts back to her uncle's "special supplier." Since the autopsy report had listed...
The steam fox's tail brushed her wrist - a warning.
So-young forced a child's pout. "Smells yucky."
Her mother's laugh rang like wind chimes as she swept up the powder. "Then we'll make it sweet, hm? With honey from-"
"The blue jars," So-young interrupted. Too fast. Too knowing. "The ones...the ones from the mountains."
Her parents exchanged glances.
Because she shouldn't have known about the rare, pure batches stored in cobalt ceramic. The ones without contaminants. The ones that couldn't be tampered with.
Jeong's form shimmered in the rising steam, paws pressing against invisible currents to shape new words in the air:
You remember.
Outside, the first plum blossom of the season tapped against the window.
Right on time.