He broke the surface of his consciousness with the urgency of a diver escaping from the deep. His eyes whirled around the room, his body slower to surface. He turned his wrist so he could see his watch. Even small movements occurred at a glacial pace. Nearly three in the morning.

Somehow, knowing the time only confused him further. His body was logged with static which felt consistent with a long absence from his body. Like he had been asleep for days.

How else could he explain the feeling he had when the static released itself to a softer silence. His body felt young again. Lighter than it had in years.

It was a state of mind he had lost long ago. Lost when he was too scared to take a chance. Lost or perhaps obstructed. Hidden beneath layers of rust and regret.

He couldn’t just go to bed now that he saw everything so clearly. He stood and walked to the kitchen. He smiled first, and then realized that the foreign feeling in his chest was joy.

He opened the fridge. A few soft vegetables, the remains of a rotisserie chicken, and a bunch of thyme that was beginning to turn. Further rummaging produced an old onion, a dusty bulb of garlic, and half a bag of noodles. It was a lackluster store of ingredients, but a vision came to him that transcended the humble spread before him.

This hour, so far ahead of the sunrise, was spent staring at the ceiling above his bed. Instead, he was in the kitchen, starting to chop. The task was slow, the knife a foreign body in his hand. His chop lacked consistency in both size and shape. This lack of skill was often accompanied by mental snares, but this morning, he instead felt calm. Not pretty, but good enough.

In the largest pot he had, he heated oil and began to add ingredients. There was no recipe to follow. His hands were by something like intuition. The chicken browned, the vegetables softened, and there was a soft hiss as he poured water over it all. He tossed in the thyme. He couldn’t find the lid for the pot, so he placed a baking tray over the top.

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He sat at the table. It felt like the first time Calvin had ever stopped to look at his own hands. Ordinary hands, and yet they had somehow made that lovely aroma that perfumed and warmed the air around him. His gaze shifted to the painting.

He felt a familiar twinge of guilt in his gut, but this time, he did not shy away from it. Perhaps that twinge of guilt was misplaced. He was not mourning the good memories that lived in the archives of his mind.

Was it callous, or had he simply been locked behind memories that could never change? All the moments that had been spent like this. Lost in memories that dug their thorns into him, and caused him to remain indentured to the past.

The sun had risen when the time finally came to add the noodles. A few minutes later and he stared at the bowl of soup he had made. The steam warmed his face. He paused to take a long inhale. It was odd how a smell could remind him so clearly of home, even if he was still unsure what home meant to him.

He brought the spoon to his mouth. His eyes watered as the broth scorched his tongue, but the tears continued to leak from him as the soup cooled and he tasted what he had created. The mysterious force guiding his hands through this alchemical process, all at once was explained. Another soup, made on a rainy Saturday afternoon, in a small apartment with someone he loved.

He had tripped and stumbled for so long. He had hated himself for struggling so much, for so long. His eyes had never left the past. Yet, from that past, he had created something beautiful.

He brought the bowl to his lips to drink down every last drop, and he smiled again, full of something real and concrete. As he let out a long satiated sigh, it felt as though part of himself had been left behind.

He had lost a lot, but it didn’t feel like that. No mourning as they parted ways. That part of him belonged in the past, and Calvin knew that he had held on to the past for too long. As he let go, that small part of himself gave him a gentle push into the bright morning.