Novelas y relatos de This Kitchen Is Not The Same Without You

I quickly opened the door and slipped in with Sage right behind me, silently shutting the door behind us. The kitchen was the same as I remembered from the many times I'd been forced to cook food for the laughing men who'd hurt me right before. Marble floors and counters. Stainless steel appliances. It was a dream kitchen unless you lived in the nightmare it covered up with it's cleanliness and appetizing food smells when one of us cooked in here. The lights were blazing lighting up every surface as Sage slowly made her way through the kitchen before me. Where was everyone? There were always people in the kitchen or somewhere close in the mansion. Why the sudden silence now?

It was a remnant of a version of herself that had been hiding in the shadows of Cedar Falls. Aurora clicked the administrative settings. She highlighted the word "Unknown." Her pulse hammered a steady, rhythmic thud against her ribs. She hit the delete key. She typed exactly five letters. "Known." She stared at the new title: "Letters from a Known Kitchen." It was a declaration of full possession. The kitchen was hers now. It was his. It belonged to the three of them. She drafted a short, final post to accompany the change. "This kitchen knows what it is now," Aurora wrote. "So do I."

"He wasn't." I looked around the kitchen and found few different things and settings.But still same surfaces I had managed for six years. The same window. The same table where I had eaten a thousand breakfasts beside a man who never once looked at what I was carrying. Sitting here now felt different from every other time I had sat here. No forced role to perform and household to manage or invisible labor waiting to be done. Just two women in a kitchen after a death that changed the sequence of everything. "Madam Chen," I said.

His eyes tracked my every movement. “It doesn’t get used. I don’t cook.” “But a kitchen like this…” I stammered. “It should be full of delicious smells and laughter. It should be full of life.” Gio’s dark eyebrows quirked upwards. “Then you need to come and cook for me. You fill this kitchen with laughter and delicious smells.” Jumping off the cabinet, he stalked towards me. Heat flooded my cheeks as I backed up. “I could make it worth your while, Keeley. Come and cook for me every day and let me…”

The scent of her cooking is still the same—garlic, onions, home. “Knoxx?” I ask without looking directly at her. “Does he still...?” She shakes her head. “Not for a while now. He left a long time ago.” I nod, pretending that doesn’t sting. The house is quiet. Different without his presence. But also safe. Comfortable.

But I had learned to adapt, to become just as unyielding. With each step down the staircase, I attentively observed the architecture, taking in the surreal and meticulously crafted surroundings. Yet, there was an unmistakable absence of warmth that permeated every corner of the house. Even the impressive kitchen, with its gleaming stainless steel appliances and dark gray granite countertops, exuded a lifeless atmosphere. It was a space devoid of love and homeliness, as if its purpose was solely utilitarian.

Kanika's voice was cold, devoid of any hint of warmth, as she spoke, "Don't ever come into this kitchen. This is not your house." The words hung in the air like an unexpected storm cloud, casting a shadow over the previously sunny morning. Aleena blinked, her heart skipping a beat as confusion flickered across her face. The spatula she held felt suddenly heavy, her hand instinctively lowering it. "I… I was just making breakfast," Aleena stammered, her voice carrying a mixture of surprise and hurt. "This kitchen is off-limits to you," Kanika reiterated, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. "You might be here, but that doesn't make this your home."

It’s unprofessional and I know that, but I let him leave it there for about half of the walk across the foyer before gently pulling away. “What’s the matter?” he asks as he opens a door for me. “You weren’t this shy before.” “I—I just need to make sure this remains professional,” I tell him. The look he gives me is one of almost pity…or something like that. It’s like he can read my mind and knows what I’m thinking. It scares me, but at the same time, thrills me. I step forward through the open door and into the most incredible kitchen I’ve ever seen. It would definitely rival any Michelin starred restaurant in the world. It also looks like it’s never really been used.

"This isn't her space—" "Last time I checked," I said, turning back to the stove, "you invited me to stay here. Or abducted me. I'm still deciding. Either way the kitchen comes with the house." "I didn't invite you anywhere." "Semantics." "It's not—" "Someone like you," I said, glancing at him over my shoulder, "probably eats plain oatmeal every morning and calls it sufficient." "Someone like me," he repeated. "Joyless and deeply unbothered by flavor."