On Tuesdays, when the mist rolls through the kitchen door, its breath caught on the scent of vanilla and burnt butter, it becomes possible to hear them—the notes left by a phantom limb, seeking warmth from a memory of hands that no longer touch.
Once, during a flickering dawn, a pancake whispered secrets of long-lost recipes from a time when the world was different. The kind of stories you only hear when the kettle sings too loudly, drowning out the mundane clatter of spoons.
“Stir the batter with a ghostly finger,” it said, “and the past will swirl into the present, like syrup down the edge of a hotcake.” And so, the white-haired chef would listen, turning the griddle's iron plate with hands steadied by folklore more than memory.