As So-young followed her parents, her small hand firmly holding in her father's calloused hand, the morning air was filled with a fragrant blend of wet soil and rain. She's unbothered, since hem of her dress has already touched and gotten dirtied by dew-laden grass. All this serves as a gift of unsoiled happy childhood something she could attain during her very first life.
Among them was apricot tree on the edge of the garden, That her grandfather put it on the day when Han food was first created, despite everyone's resistance, Grandfather dug hole for the tree by himself, he could have asked servants to do. This story was one of her favorite in her previous life when she still thought the family was perfect.
"Be careful around the roots," Mother warned that they contact, her voice is warm with entertainment. He balanced his picnic basket on one hip, and refurbished against the low lower branches with the other hand. "Your father nearly broke his ankle here last summer when—"
"When I was running from your terrible cooking," Father finished, grinning as Mother swatted at him with a cloth napkin.
So-young watched the way they teased each other, the way Mother's eyes wrinkled at the corners when she laughed. This was what she'd missed most - not just their presence, but their joy. The way they moved through the world like two halves of a perfect whole.
Father spread the blanket beneath the tree's broad shadow while Mother unpacked their meal: rice cakes shaped like flowers, strips of marinated beef wrapped in lettuce, and a small ceramic jar of honey from the safe blue containers. The sight of that familiar glaze sent a shiver down So-young's spine.
"Tell me about the tree again," she asked, plucking at the blanket's corners.
Father's hands stilled on the basket lid. "You've heard that story a hundred times, little chef."
"But not the real one." The words slipped out before she could stop them.
A heavy silence fell. High above, a sparrow took flight, its wings beating loudly against the sudden quiet. Mother's chopsticks hovered midway to her mouth.
Father looked her with an expression she couldn't tell. "What makes you say that?"
Jeong's mist curled around So-young's ankle beneath the blanket, cool and insistent. The spirit had led her here for a reason. She pointed to the big scar running down the tree's trunk - a wound that was never fully healed. "That's not from lightning."
Mother set down her chopsticks with deliberate care. Father exhaled through his nose, the way he always did that when weighing difficult decisions.
"You're too young," he began, but Mother interrupted.
"She deserves to know where the poison started."
And so Father told the story properly for the first time:
Fifty years ago, two brothers had sat beneath a young apricot tree, sharing wine from the same bottle. By morning, one would be dead, the other would inherit Han Food, and the tree would bear a scar no gardener could explain.
"The physicians called it bad shellfish," Father said, his fingers tracing the tree's wounded bark. "But the servants whispered. They always whisper."
Mother's hand found So-young's, squeezing gently. "Your grandfather's brother challenged him for control of the company. They reconciled here, beneath this tree. Or so the official records say."
So-young's chest ached. She'd grown up hearing about her great-uncle's tragic accident, but never the tension that preceded it. Never the way Grandfather had banned blue-glazed ceramics for years afterward - until the mountain monks convinced him their sealed jars were poison-proof.
Jeong's mist swirled suddenly, drifting toward the tree's roots. Where it touched the earth, the soil glowed faintly green.
Mother gasped. Father went very still.
"Did you—"
"See that?" Father finished, his voice tight. "No. Of course not." But his knuckles had gone white around his chopsticks.
The moment stretched, fragile as spun sugar. Then Father forced a laugh and ruffled So-young's hair. "Enough gloomy stories! Who wants the first rice cake?"
As her parents turned their attention to the food, So-young pressed her palm flat against the tree's roots. The ground felt warm under her fingers, vibrating with some deep, secret energy. Jeong's presence thickened around her wrist, like jeong was urging her to dig.
That night, long after the household had retired, So-young returned to the tree with nothing but her bare hands and the fox spirit's faint glow to guide her.
The earth came away easily, as if the ground itself wanted to reveal its secrets. Just below the surface, her fingers brushed cold metal.
A rusted lockbox, no larger than her child-sized hands. Inside lay:
A shattered blue vial that smelled faintly of apricots and something metallic
A lock of dark hair tied with a black silk ribbon
A recipe scroll titled in elegant hanja: "The Truth in Dough"
When Jeong's mist touched the parchment, hidden characters shimmered to life:
"Knead by moonlight with tears and ash,
What was swallowed will rise at last."
Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked. So-young barely had time to rebury the box before a lantern's glow cut through the darkness.
"Little chef?" Father's voice was softer than she'd ever heard it. "What are you doing out here?"
In his free hand, he carried a small blue jar - the kind from the mountains. The safe kind.
So-young opened her mouth to lie, but Jeong's mist revolved hastly around the freshly turned earth. Father's gaze dropped to the freshly dug soil, then back to her face.
For one moment, she thought he would be angry.
Then he knelt beside her, setting the lantern down. "Some roots," he murmured, brushing dirt from her nightclothes, "grow deeper than we realize."
His hands were shaking.