"I'm not in any rush," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice without needing to see it. "This is nicer than the cabin I rented, anyway."
"That wouldn't be difficult. The resort cabins are glorified sheds with WiFi."
She laughs softly. "And here I was looking forward to rustic authenticity."
"If by 'authenticity' you mean plumbing that freezes and walls thin enough to hear squirrels thinking about entering the attic, sure."
"You're not selling me on going back there," she says, still smiling. Then, after a pause: "Have you always lived here? In this cabin, I mean."
I consider deflecting, as I've done with every personal question for two decades. But something about the hour, the firelight, the strange intimacy of this moment makes evasion seem more effort than it's worth.
"No," I answer finally. "I built it fifteen years ago. Lived in a much smaller place further up the mountain before that. Little more than a shack, really."
"Why here? Of all places."
The question is gentle, curious rather than demanding. Still, I feel my shoulders tense. "It was remote. Affordable. And I needed..." I pause, searching for the right word. "Distance."
She nods, as if this makes perfect sense. Perhaps to her, it does. "From the accident?"
I look at her sharply. "What do you know about that?"
"Not much," she admits. "Only what was reported at the time. That there was a chemical spill in the restaurant kitchen. That you were injured." She hesitates. "And that you disappeared afterward."
"That's the Wikipedia version, I suppose." My voice sounds bitter even to my own ears.
"I'd rather hear your version," she says quietly. "If you want to tell it."
Do I want to tell it? Twenty years I've lived with this story locked inside me, never spoken aloud, not even to myself in the darkest hours of night. But now, with her looking at me with those eyes that see too much, I find the words rising unbidden.
"It was a delivery mistake," I begin, voice low. "Industrial-strength cleaning agent in containers meant for vinegar. Same size, similar labels, catastrophic difference." I stare into the embers, seeing not the fire but the chaos of that day. "When I opened it, the fumes hit me immediately. Like breathing fire."
I hear her small intake of breath, but she doesn't interrupt.
"Hospital said I was lucky. Could have been worse—permanent lung damage, blindness. Instead, all I lost was my sense of smell." I laugh, a sound without humor. "All. As if smell isn't fundamental to taste. As if a chef without that sense isn't like a painter gone colorblind."
"But you can still taste," she says. "I watched you with the syrup. You know exactly what you're making."
"It's different," I explain, surprising myself with my willingness to elaborate. "I can perceive sweet, salty, bitter, sour, umami. Basic sensations. But the complexity, the nuance… that's gone. And without it..." I trail off, the old grief rising fresh in my chest.
"You felt you couldn't cook anymore," she finishes for me. "Not at the level you were accustomed to."
"I couldn't," I correct her. "It wasn't a feeling, it was a fact. My palate was compromised. My judgment was suspect. And everyone was watching—critics, competitors, even friends—waiting to see if the great Silas Thorn would fall from his pedestal." The bitterness returns, sharp as the day I left. "So I removed the pedestal entirely."
I've said too much, revealed too much. Yet strangely, I don't regret it.
"I understand," she says finally. "Why you left. But you didn't stop creating. You just changed your medium."
I glance at her, surprised by the insight.
"The syrup," she continues. "It's still an expression of your mastery. You've just adapted to work within different constraints."
"It's not the same," I say, but without conviction.
"Nothing ever is," she replies simply. "That doesn't make it less valuable."
"Your father taught you well," I say, unable to keep a note of pride from my voice. David always was the better teacher between us.
"He did," she agrees. "But not everything I know comes from him." She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "I've had my own journey."
