ASpoonfulOfMemory
Talia hadn't closed her eyes all night.
Her friend's voice from the late-night call still rang in her ears, trembling and urgent:
"Your foster mom... she was hit by a car. She's in a coma."
Her chest ached. Her fingers trembled.
But there was nothing she could do. Not at this hour. And especially not without permission.
The family rules played on repeat in her mind- Rowan Thorne's cold, commanding voice from earlier:
No outings without approval. No calls without clearance. No deviation from protocol. Her every move now belonged to the Thornes.
So, she waited for morning.
She rose early, washed, dressed in something simple, and stepped quietly out of her room.
The mansion was still hushed, but not asleep. Voices trickled from the living room below. Following them, she spotted Damon with a phone pressed to his ear, his tall frame by the wide glass windows, speaking sharply.
"No, tell the board we'll move forward regardless of complaints. I want the files cleaned up and delivered before noon. No excuses."
His tone sent a chill down her spine.
She waited until he ended the call, then stepped forward.
"I need to go out," she said softly.
He didn't turn.
"My mother was hit by a car last night," she added. "She's in a coma. I'd like to see her."
Still, silence.
Then, in a clipped, un bothered tone, he said, "Go make my breakfast."
Her breath caught. "I- Damon, I just said-"
He finally turned, gaze as flat as stone. "I said breakfast. That's all I want to hear right now."
She stood still for a moment, shocked.
Then, without a word, she turned away and walked toward the kitchen.
She tried not to slam anything, though her insides screamed. She'd thought- just maybe- he'd show a silver of decency. But he didn't even blink.
One of the maids handed her a small slip of paper.
"This is what the Master usually eats,"
Talia nodded and prepared the meal with care. Scrambled eggs, grilled tomatoes, toast, and black coffee. Every part neatly plated.
She carried it back to the dining area, setting it down on the glass table in front of him.
He looked at it once- and frowned.
"This isn't what I wanted."
Talia stared. "That's what the maid told me to make-"
He raised his eyes to hers, sharp and unyielding. "Did I ask what the maid said?"
She opened her mouth, closed it again.
"What do you want, then?" She asked after a long pause.
He said nothing.
She turned and went back into the kitchen, biting back frustration. If he wouldn't say what he wanted, how was she supposed to guess?
She stood in front of the pantry shelves for a moment, thinking.
Then something came to her- not a memory of him, but a hunch. A dish she used to make for her dad, whenever he needed comfort. Simple rice porridge with a touch of honey and walnut. It was warm, soothing, and quietly nostalgia.
It was worth a try.
She prepared it carefully, taste-testing as she stirred. The aroma filled the kitchen gently, unlike the harsh scent of burnt coffee or over-oiled meat.
She brought it out again, a faint hope fluttering in her chest.
Damon looked at the bowl, then slowly pushed himself to his feet.
Then - without a word- he struck it off the table.
It crashed to the marble floor with a splatter, shards scattering in every direction.
"Don't ever make that again," he said darkly, before turning and walking away.
Talia stood frozen for a moment.
The sting in her eyes burned, but she didn't let it fall. She knelt, hands shaking slightly as she began picking up the broken pieces.
Behind her, a soft voice broke the silence.
"No one's made that dish in years," murmured an older maid.
Talia paused, but didn't turn.
"It was his favorite," the maid continued.
"His nanny used to make it for him."
Talia looked up slowly.
"She died when he was seventeen," the maid added softly. "After that, he never touched the dish again. He banned it from the estate. We don't even speak of it."
Talia's heart sank. So that was it. Her accidental guess had reopened a wound she didn't know existed.
She didn't respond. Just finished cleaning, stood, and left the kitchen.
The guards at the estate gate didn't stop her.
She wasn't sure why- not that she questioned it. Maybe they hadn't been told to prevent her today. Or maybe, for once, the rules bent for grief.
---------
The hospital was quiet, too quiet.
The sterile walls and smell of antiseptic made her stomach churn. She walked quickly through the halls until she found the right room. Her fingers gripped the doorknob.
Inside, her foster mother lay motionless- so pale, so still.
Talia's breath hitched in her throat.
Mina looked up from her seat by the bedside, eyes swollen and red.
"Talia..."
She rushed into her friend's arms and the two of them cried, holding tightly to one another.
"She was asking about you," Mina said in a choked whisper. "Before she blacked out... she was calling your name."
Talia stepped forward, touching the back of her mother's hand gently.
"I'm here," she whispered. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry I wasn't there."
The beeping of machines and hum of air filled the silence between sobs. Her body shook with guilt and helplessness.
Then- the door creaked open behind them.
Footsteps entered the room.
Talia turned, startled.
A man stood at the threshold- tall, dark suit, sharp presence.
Her eyes widened- not in fear, but in stunned recognition.
"... You?"
The word slipped out before she could stop it.
Mina looked up in confusion, but Talia couldn't move.
She hadn't seen him in years.
And now he was here.
His voice was calm, as if time hadn't stretched between them at all.
"Talia."
Her name on his tongue felt like a whisper from another life.