The winter sun had only just started its slow climb over the mandarin orchard when the kitchen lights flickered on, flooding the space with gentle gold. The counters were already dusted with flour. The oven, fired up before dawn, radiated a soft heat that pushed back the chill lingering outside. Sunday mornings were always slow, but this one felt especially heavy with meaning.
Joon-ho tied his apron with a swift motion, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Around him, the kitchen crew—some yawning, some humming, all smiling—gathered with bowls and trays, ready for the last broadcast. The clatter of measuring spoons and the low thump of dough on the table had become a kind of morning ritual, a language they shared without thinking.
"All right," Joon-ho called out, voice carrying a calm certainty that steadied the nerves of those around him. "Last show. Let's make it count. Who's with me for one more miracle?"
