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An old woman stood in her tiny kitchen, peeling and dicing potatoes with a practised hand. Her weathered face showed lines etched with age and life, and her gnarled hands worked with slow, deliberate grace. She hummed a tune to herself, lost in the task at hand.

As she added the diced potatoes to a pot of simmering broth, a chill ran through the room. The old woman shivered slightly and looked up, sensing a presence. There, in the corner of the kitchen, stood a young woman with flowing grey hair, watching her every move. Between her pale lips floated, black particles in slow motion around her.

The old woman didn’t seem surprised or afraid of the ghostly visitor. Instead, she simply nodded her head in acknowledgement before returning her attention to the soup. The young woman's gaze follows her every move, her black eyes filled with curiosity and wonder as if she was herself learning each ingredient, each step and timing.

As the soup bubbles away, the old woman added a pinch of salt and a dash of pepper, tasting it to make sure it's just right. The young woman watched in awe, captivated by the ritual of cooking and the care and precision the old woman put into every step.

Finally, the soup was ready, and the old woman ladled it into a bowl. She set it on the table and called a name: 'Ava, lunch is ready!'

A young child ran into the table: 'What is it?'

'Grannie's potato soup, nothing special, dear.'

'My favourite! Yummy!'; said the child excitedly, sitting down to eat.

The young woman was still watching silently from the corner. The old woman savoured with her granddaughter every spoonful, enjoying the warmth and comfort of the soup.

As she finished, she looked up at the young woman and smiled. 'Thank you for watching over her, dear. Thank you.'; she said, whispering almost as a prayer. 'I hope you enjoyed the soup as much as we did.'

The young woman smiled back before fading away into a faint cloud of dust, leaving the old woman and the child alone once again. The old woman wiped her mouth and stood up, carrying the empty bowl back to the sink. She hummed to herself once more as she began to wash the dishes, content with the knowledge that she was never really alone in her kitchen after all.

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Nona regained conscience in her cosy kitchen with warm, yellow lighting. She stood at the stove, stirring a pot of simmering broth. Her focus is intense as she follows the recipe for a traditional potato soup with precision.

Every step is carefully measured and timed as if she were performing a scientific experiment or a complex calculus that only Eske would understand. She checks and rechecks the recipe, making sure to add each ingredient in precisely the right amount and at exactly the right time.

The potatoes are peeled and diced with a sharp knife, and the onions are chopped into small pieces. Nona adds them to the pot with a sprinkle of salt, pepper, and a pinch of dried herbs.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

As the soup simmers, Nona tastes it carefully, adjusting the seasoning and adding a splash of cream for richness. She stirs the pot with a wooden spoon, her eyes scanning the surface for any signs of imperfection.

Nona prepared the cupboard next to the sink and placed her hand wide open, and with a fast slam of the kitchen knife, she cut two of her fingers. She washed them carefully in water from the tap, then, using the same blade, again made small incisions on each fingertip as far down toward the base joint as possible without cutting through it. The blood was still warm when Nona put one finger into the soup. It had a distinctive taste but not so much that she could detect anything unusual about its colour or odour.

Then, after taking another sip herself, she found this more palatable than the first and tasted it again before adding the second digit to complete the recipe.

She involved her hand in a towel which kept out any dripping drops while allowing enough circulation for normal operation by means of gentle, very gentle pressure upon the opened sliced wounds. She prepared the immersion blenders and began mixing the broth and her own flesh until it disappeared and turned into a thick delicious creme. When at last there remained only a few thin strands of white bone showing here and there among the clear liquid, Nona took up a spoon removing them one by one with no rush.

The kitchen was quiet now except for the occasional sound of bubbling soup and the soft clink of utensils against the counter. Nona's movements were slow and deliberate, almost like a dance, as she tended to the soup with care.

When finally, the soup was ready. Nona ladles it into a Tupperware with a steady hand, the creamy broth and tender chunks of potato filling the air with a rich, comforting aroma.

'Baby, I'm home.'; Eske's voice startled Nona, who tried to swipe all the blood on the counter. 'Hey, love, didn't you hear me?'; he asked, coming inside the kitchen and hugging Nona from behind.

'Sorry, I was distracted cooking.'

Eske noticed her hand wrapped in a bloody towel: 'Nona, what the fuck happened?'

'Nothing, I just cut myself. I was clumsy.'

'Clumpsy! The towel is fucking drenched in blood.'; Eske removed the towel to observe her hand, but not even a cut. 'What...'

'It was a small cut, baby, but have already healed.'; she said while leaning on his lips. 'How did it go with Ava?'

'Same thing, still a big no, and we are at six days before the download is complete. How are you feeling?'

'I'm great. I'm going for a walk.'

'You cooked? Smells really good.'; he looked at the empty pan: 'Nothing left? Not even a tiny spoon for your husband.'

'Do you have coffee for me?'

'Oh, baby, you can't be mad because of that, is for the baby!'

'Well, the soup is for someone else. I'll see you later.'; she placed the Tupperware into a bag and left the apartment with Eske wondering what his wife was planning and mumbling to himself: ‘I can’t give her coffee. She is pregnant…. Wouldn’t she be that petty…? Would she? Nah….Shit.’

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