The morning sun turned the kitchen golden, as Mother's hands moved through the dough, her fingers folding and pressing in a rhythm So-young had spent years trying to replicate.
"Watch closely," Yuna said, dusting flour between them like sacred powder. "The dough tells you when it's ready."
So-young standing on her father's old wooden stool, her legs swinging inches above the floor. In her first life, she'd been too impatient for this lesson. Now she memorized every detail:
The way Mother's wedding ring clicked past the ceramic bowl
The soft huff she made when a strand of hair escaped her bun
The warmth radiating from the dough as it began to rise
"Your turn." Mother guided her small hands into the mixture.
The moment her fingers sank in, So-young's breath caught. Alive. The dough pulsed like a heartbeat beneath her palms—something she'd never felt as an adult, no matter how many bakeries she'd run.
Jeong's mist formed around their wrists, weaving between mother and daughter. The spirit's presence made the dough glow faintly where their hands touched.
Mother didn't seem to notice.
"See how it springs back?" She pressed So-young's fingertip into the dough, laughing when it slowly filled the indentation. "That means it's happy."
Happy. The word lodged in So-young's throat. How many times had she kneaded dough in her first life, cursing when it tore or stuck? She'd forgotten it could be happy.
A shadow darkened the doorway.
Father leaned against the frame, sleeves rolled up to reveal flour-dusted forearms. "what are my girls conspiring again?"
Mother tossed a walnut at him. "Only against your terrible rolling technique."
He caught it with a grin and moved behind them, his broad hands covering theirs on the dough. "Like this, little chef." His calloused palms guided hers in widening circles.
Three generations of hands, one lump of dough.
Jeong's mist brightened, wrapping around their joined fingers. The dough shimmered—just for a second—before returning to normal.
Father blinked. "Did you see—?"
"Appa." So-young pointed quickly at the window. "Look! The first plum blossom!"
By the time they turned back, the dough sat innocently in its bowl. But Mother's gaze lingered on So-young's face a beat too long.
That night, as So-young lay in bed, a warm weight settled at her feet. Jeong materialized as a faint fox-shaped depression in the blankets.
"She felt it too," the spirit whispered.
Down the hall, a sliver of light showed under her parents' door. Through the wood, she heard murmurs:
"—never glowed like that before—"
"—mountain monks always said our line had—"
"—keep her away from the east cellar—"
The floor creaked. So-young barely had time to fake sleep before Mother's hand brushed her forehead. A drop of something warm and honey-sweet touched her lips.
The taste of untainted medicine.