The knife, the stove and the first real taste of Hope

Becoming an assistant in the kitchen didn’t suddenly make my life easy. It just changed the kind of pain I carried.

Before, the pain was in my ears—insults, laughs, whispers of “poverty disease.” Now the pain moved into my hands: burns from hot pans, knife cuts that stung for days, fingers numb from washing vegetables in cold water when the café’s heater broke again.

Still… I preferred this pain.

Because for the first time since my mother died, I felt something that wasn’t fear.

I felt purpose.

The chef’s name was Mister Varn. A tall man with tired eyes and a voice that sounded like it was made of gravel. He didn’t smile much, but he wasn’t cruel either. In our city, that already made him an angel.

The day I officially started in the kitchen, he threw me an apron.

-Here. Don’t think being an assistant makes you special. You’ll peel, chop, wash, and shut up. Understood?

-Yes, sir.

He stared at me for a moment, then spoke again.

-But… if your hands are fast, and your mind isn’t empty, I’ll teach you. Not for pity. For profit. A good kitchen is money.

-I understand.

And I truly did.

In the kitchen, I learned that food is not only “food.” It’s timing, heat, smell, texture, balance. It’s discipline. It’s war.

While others in school were dreaming about pretty uniforms and exchange trips, I was dreaming about salt.

Yes. Salt.

Do you know what happens when you eat only bread and water for years? One day, someone gives you warm soup, and you almost cry because the salt tastes like a miracle.

That was the first time I understood: taste can save people.

In the café, I did everything I could. I arrived early, left late, and when I went home, instead of collapsing, I practiced with whatever I had—crumbs, cheap vegetables, sometimes a tiny piece of meat when I got a leftover from the kitchen.

I began writing things down in a notebook I found in the trash. I drew pans. I wrote measurements. I described smells like I was a scientist.

“Onion + oil. Wait until it becomes sweet, not bitter.”

“Boil potatoes with skin. Peel after. Taste is stronger.”

“Never rush the fire. Fire is a living thing.”

I was becoming obsessed.

And the more I worked, the more I noticed something uncomfortable.

People in the kitchen watched me.

Not the workers. They were busy. I mean… someone else.

Sometimes, when I carried trash outside, I felt a presence across the street. When I turned, there would be a man in a clean coat, pretending to look at something else. When I blinked, he would be gone.

At first, I thought I was paranoid.

But one night, as I was leaving the café, my hands still smelling like garlic and pepper, I saw him clearly under the dim streetlamp.

The same man who came to my house.

Radansen Topoliev.

He stood like he owned the street itself. Calm. Rich. Untouchable.

I froze.

-He’s here again… Why? Why won’t he just leave me alone?

I tried to walk past him quickly, eyes down, but he spoke.

-You’re thinner.

I stopped. That was such a strange thing to say that I couldn’t ignore it.

-What do you want?

He looked at me like an adult would look at an interesting insect. Not disgusted. Not amused. Just… observing.

-I want to know if you’re still alive.

-I don’t need your attention.

-You don’t need it. But you’ve been receiving it anyway.

My fists clenched. I hated that calm tone.

-If you came to offer “care” again, I’ll refuse again.

-You refused an adoption. Not care.

-I don’t want either.

He sighed like I was exhausting him, then pulled out a small envelope.

-This is not adoption. This is not pity.

-I don’t take gifts.

-Then don’t. Throw it away. But read it first.

He placed the envelope on the ground near my foot and stepped back, like he didn’t want to contaminate himself with my “poorness,” the way those exchange students said.

I stared at it, suspicious. My heart was beating so hard I could hear it.

-What is it?

-A scholarship application. For a culinary training program funded by a foundation in Wan Yark.

My breath caught.

-A… what?

-You’re working two jobs and going to school. You sleep three to four hours. Your mother died because exhaustion kills. Do you plan to follow her?

His words were sharp.

Anger rose in me like boiling water.

-Don’t you dare talk about my mother.

-I’m talking about you, Savanna Greensky.

My name in his mouth sounded heavy, like a verdict.

-I don’t need your money. If I earn something, I’ll earn it myself.

He nodded slowly.

-Then earn it. The application doesn’t guarantee anything. It’s just a door. You still have to be worthy enough to open it.

I stared at him. My throat burned.

For a second, I remembered my mother saying: “Goddess Laitefia will surely hear our prayers.”

But what if the goddess didn’t send miracles?

What if she sent… opportunities disguised as enemies?

Radansen turned away, then paused.

-One more thing, child.

I didn’t answer.

-If you truly want to become someone in this world… you must learn one rule: pride doesn’t feed you. Skill does.

Then he walked into the dark, leaving me with the envelope.

I stood there, under the streetlamp, trembling.

Was this salvation?

Or another trap?

I picked up the envelope with shaking fingers… and opened it.

And what I saw inside made my blood run cold.

Because the scholarship wasn’t just a culinary program.

It was an invitation to a closed competition.

A competition where only the children of powerful families usually entered.

And my name—Savanna Greensky—was already typed on the first page.

Not handwritten.

Typed.

Like someone had decided my path before I even agreed.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***