"We should finish cleaning," Ivy says, reading my thoughts. "The produce needs sorting before it spoils."
"I'll handle the social media," Maya offers. "Keep responding, build momentum. This could actually be good for us."
"Just don't pick fights with anyone who has more than ten thousand followers," I say. "My heart can't take it."
"No promises."
She disappears into the office. I follow Ivy to the walk-in where crates of vegetables wait in various states of organization.
"These ones are fine," she says, pointing to the tomatoes she brought. "These carrots are borderline. They need to be used tomorrow or they'll turn. And this lettuce is already wilting."
I gather a head of lettuce, examine it. The outer leaves are brown but the heart is still good. "We can salvage it. Peel away the damage, use the good parts for lunch service."
"That's a lot of labor for not much yield."
"It's what we've got."
We work in silence, sorting vegetables into keep, use-immediately, and compost piles. The walk-in is cold enough that our breath fogs. Ivy's methodical, checking each item with careful attention.
"Your aunt must have been something," she says after a while, not looking up from the carrots she's inspecting. "To build this place from nothing."
"She was." I examine a tomato, turn it in my hands. "She had this thing she'd do. Every morning before service, she'd stand in the kitchen and smell everything. Not taste, just smell. The herbs, the bread, whatever was simmering on the stove. She said you could tell the soul of a place by its smell."
I can see her now. Small, fierce, moving through the kitchen like she owned the air itself. The way she'd close her eyes, inhale deeply, smile when something was right.
"What did this place smell like? When she ran it?"
"Rosemary and butter. Always. No matter what else was cooking." I set the tomato down. "She kept a pot of rosemary water simmering on the back burner. Said it made people feel welcome before they even tasted the food."
Ivy hushes for a moment. Then she reaches into one of the crates, brings out a bundle of rosemary. "I brought this. From the community garden. I thought you might want it for tomorrow's service."
I take it. The scent hits immediately, sharp and clean and achingly familiar.
"Thank you."
"It's just herbs."
"It's not."
She knows it's not. I can see it in the way she's looking at me, careful and understanding.
We keep sorting. The pile of salvageable produce grows. It's not much, but it's enough for tomorrow. Maybe the day after if we're creative.
"You're good at this," I say. "The sorting, the organizing. You see the potential in things most people would throw away."
"That's literally my job. Saving seeds that other people think are obsolete."
"Still. It's a skill."
She shrugs, but I catch the smallest smile. "You're not terrible at improvisation. Even when it's reckless and arguably irresponsible."
"High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head."
The walk-in door opens. Maya leans in, shivering immediately. "How do you two stand it in here?"
"We're motivated," Ivy says. "What's wrong?"
