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𝕁𝕒𝕟𝕦𝕒𝕣𝕪 𝟚𝟜𝕥𝕙, 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟛, 𖡡 𝔽𝕝𝕖𝕦𝕣 𝕕𝕖 𝕃𝕪𝕤, 𝔹𝕣𝕦𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕤
I trailed behind Lucie as she left the restaurant.
"Have a good night, Lucie! And be careful," I said, reaching for the keys in my apron to close the door behind her. "Call me when that weirdo follows you again," I chuckled as my eyes looked up at the snowflakes falling from the sky.
She looked over her shoulder briefly. "You too, Anna. Don't stay too late, okay?" she said while exiting. "Remember, it's a long day tomorrow." As her first foot reached the ground, she slightly slipped, and I caught her right on time. "And maybe throw some salt," she chuckled as she found her balance once more
"I'll be fine," I assured her, though my voice betrayed a hint of exhaustion. "You make sure you don't break your neck in this weather," I laughed as Lucie disappeared around the corner, leaving me alone in the dimly lit restaurant. Locking the door as the evening service was finally over.
Heading back to the kitchen I turned back to the counters, I let out a deep breath, the kind that comes after a long day's work. The past few months had been a whirlwind. I'd been trying to piece my life back together, grappling with the memory of Richard, which often felt like a phantom lingering just beyond my reach. It wasn't easy, not by a long shot.
It was mid-January now, and the world outside the restaurant had slipped into the cold, gray depths of winter. I could see the frosty breath of the city through the glass windows. The early nights and long hours had become a rhythm I followed with the precision of habit. I was no longer drowning in the chaos, but swimming, one stroke at a time.
I walked over to the little speaker we had set up in the kitchen, although never used during service. It was like my little gem that only I got to use before opening and after closing. Turning it on I connected my phone, putting the Rammstein, Lindemann, Emigrate playlist on shuffle.
The restaurant had become my sanctuary. Its familiar smells and routines anchored me, but it also held echoes of nights that were now just faint memories. Richard and the whirlwind of that summer felt like a dream I was slowly waking up from. It was both comforting and painful to think back on. The music, the chaos, and his touch—they were all fragments of a time that now seemed both vivid and distant.
I'd found solace in routine and in unexpected friendships. Alexander had become a constant presence. We'd met up often, and our shared love for music had forged a bond stronger than either of us had anticipated. We'd gone to concerts, shared late-night talks about life and dreams, and in many ways, he'd become the friend I hadn't realized I needed. His presence was a steadying force in my life, and our camaraderie had given me a sense of normalcy I hadn't felt in a while.
The kitchen now felt both comforting and alien. It was where I had spent countless hours, but it was also where my emotions had become tangled. Cooking here felt different now. It was a space of healing, but also a place where I confronted the ghost of what once was. A constant reminder that there might have been an opportunity for more. For a certain freedom I deep down still craved. The embers of that dream forever glowing, but never reignited.
