The roosters had not yet cried, and the lanterns outside The Whispering Bowl still flickered faintly against the sleepy mist.
Inside, a single light burned steady in the kitchen.
Ananya sat at the wooden counter, sleeves rolled up, ink brush in hand.
The paper spread before her was covered in her delicate handwriting — neat columns of ingredients, small notes beside each:
"Chop onions thin — not crushed."
"Steam buns no longer than four breaths after vapor rises."
"If flavor dulls, add a drop of ginger oil before salt."
She paused, added one last line in smaller letters —
"Cook with patience; flavor listens to kindness."
When she set the brush down, she smiled faintly.
From the doorway came a quiet voice, still thick with sleep. "You're awake again before dawn, aren't you?"
Yao Qing entered, hair loose, rubbing her eyes. "You haven't slept a wink since yesterday."
Ananya shook her head gently. "There's work that cannot wait."
