"My father would love this," she says, breaking the comfortable silence. "He always said the best meals are the simplest ones, made with care. That's why he started cooking in the first place."
"Your father is a chef too?" I ask, something prickling at the back of my neck.
"He was." She takes a sip of water. "He taught me everything I know about respecting ingredients. Always said, 'Sage, you can't make good food without good intentions.'"
The name registers instantly, triggering a cascade of memories I've spent decades trying to suppress.Sage. As in Sage Winters. As in the daughter of David Winters—my former business partner, my best friend, the man whose existence I've deliberately erased from my daily thoughts.
The fork pauses halfway to my mouth as the full realization crashes over me. This isn't just some random young chef stranded by a storm. This is David's daughter.
The same little girl who used to sit on my shoulders in the restaurant kitchen, giggling as I let her stir the pasta water. The child who fell asleep on sacks of flour during inventory nights. The goddaughter I abandoned along with everything else when I disappeared into these mountains.
"Your last name," I say, voice tight. "It's Winters."
She looks up, surprised by my tone. "Yes. Sage Winters."
"David Winters' daughter."
Her surprise deepens. "You know my father?"
Know him. Present tense. So David is still alive. The thought shouldn't bring the relief it does.
"We worked together. A long time ago." The understatement feels bitter on my tongue.
We didn't just work together, we built an empire together, revolutionized regional cuisine, shared the best years of our lives side by side in kitchens across the country.
"Wait." Her eyes widen as connections form. "You're Silas Thorn?"
I nod stiffly, setting down my fork. My appetite has vanished entirely.
"Oh my god." She stares at me like I've suddenly transformed into someone else. In her eyes, I suppose I have. "My father talks about you all the time. Says you were the most brilliant chef he ever knew. But he thought—everyone thought—"
"That I was dead?" I finish for her. "Many probably hoped so."
"No," she says quickly. "Just... gone. Disappeared. Dad never really explained what happened."
Of course he didn't. David was always better than me at protecting others from ugly truths.
"It was a complicated time," I say, the words inadequate for the magnitude of what transpired. The accident. The devastating realization that the career I'd built, the identity I'd constructed, was suddenly, irrevocably gone.
She's still staring, reassessing everything about our interactions through this new lens. Suddenly I can’t bear the weight of her gaze, heavy with questions I have no intention of answering.
"It's getting late," I say abruptly, standing to clear the plates. "You should get some rest. The storm should pass by morning."
She blinks at the sudden shift. "I—okay." She rises, hesitates. "Silas, my father would—"
"Your father and I haven't spoken in twenty years," I interrupt, voice harder than intended. "And that's not going to change now."
She flinches slightly, and I hate myself for causing it, but can't seem to stop. "The guest room is through that door." I gesture toward the hallway. "Bathroom's adjacent. There are extra blankets in the chest if you need them."
"Thank you," she says quietly, confusion evident in her voice. "For dinner. And for letting me stay."
I nod stiffly, not trusting myself to speak again. She gathers her small overnight bag and knife roll, then pauses at the hallway entrance.
"For what it's worth," she says, "he never said anything bad about you. Only that you were the best. That you taught him everything important about cooking, and about friendship."
I turn away, focusing intently on rinsing plates that don't need the attention. "Good night, Sage."
After a moment's hesitation, I hear her soft footsteps retreating down the hall, followed by the gentle click of the guest room door.
