A few more days passed, soft and unremarkable — but beautiful in their simplicity.
Each morning began with the sound of the kettle whistling and sunlight slipping across the kitchen floor.
I had learned so many recipes now.
Soups, stews, pies, bread, even the soft sweetness of pancakes.
The kitchen had become my sanctuary — warm, fragrant, alive.
Every meal was a small experiment, every flavor a new memory I could never quite taste but could still feel. I couldn't eat, but I could sense what food meant to others — the joy, the comfort, the unspoken love that came from something shared.
Maybe that was enough.
---
Lily often sat beside me, her chin resting on her hands as she watched me cook.
"You're amazing, Clara," she said one afternoon as I stirred a pot of stew. "Mom said you cook better than anyone she knows!"
I smiled faintly. "That's very kind of her. I just… follow what the books say."
Lily shook her head. "No, it's not just that. You make things feel warm — like home."
Her words lingered in the air.
Home.
How long had it been since I felt that?
The word stirred something deep within me — something soft, almost fragile. Maybe I had spent too long thinking of myself as a lost soul, a relic, a mistake. But here, in this little house, surrounded by laughter and the scent of cooking, I had found something that even time couldn't take away.
---
Sometimes, when the others were asleep, I practiced quietly — turning pages, writing notes, drawing sketches of recipes I wanted to try.
My handwriting was old-fashioned and uneven, but I liked the look of it — a reminder of the person I had been before all of this.
The books began to fill with small pieces of me:
tiny scribbles, small ideas, even a few words Lily had taught me to spell.
Add more sugar next time.
Lily likes this one.
Feels like morning light.
Each note felt like a thread tying me closer to this world — not as a ghost or artifact, but as something alive.
---
Lily's parents had started trusting me completely.
They no longer flinched when I spoke or entered the room. Her father even asked me for advice about how to make his morning coffee stronger. Her mother often came home smiling, saying, "Clara, I don't know how you do it. This house feels brighter since you came."
I didn't know what to say.
I only knew that their words made my chest ache in the best way.
---
One evening, after dinner, Lily fell asleep on the couch while watching television.
I covered her with a blanket and sat beside her for a long while, watching the glow of the screen flicker across her face.
It was strange — I had seen centuries pass, watched empires rise and fall, oceans swallow ships, and yet… this small, quiet life felt more miraculous than all of it.
The hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the clock, the soft sound of Lily's breathing —
these were the sounds of now.
Of peace.
Of belonging.
And I realized, as I looked at her sleeping face, that I no longer longed to return to the past.
I didn't need to.
Because for the first time since my soul had been trapped inside porcelain,
I wasn't just watching life.
I was living it.