The morning of Grandfather's seventy-third birthday dawned with the kind of crisp March sunlight that made everything look softer around the edges. I stood barefoot in the kitchen at 5 AM, the cold tile seeping through my socks as I measured out flour with the precision of a chemist. This cake had to be perfect.
"Stop breathing down my neck," I muttered without turning around.
Li Na's chuckle warmed the back of my neck. "I'm not hovering, I'm supervising." Her fingers darted past me to swipe a glob of chocolate batter. "Quality control."
I smacked her hand away with my wooden spoon. "Touch that again and I'll tell Mom you're the one who used her good silk scarf to strain kimchi juice last week."
The kitchen door swung open, admitting Mom with an armful of peonies still damp with morning dew. She took one look at us - me covered in cocoa powder, Li Na licking chocolate off her fingers - and sighed the special sigh reserved for when we were acting like children. "Please tell me you're not fighting over batter."
"Your daughter is threatening me," Li Na said, pressing a dramatic hand to her chest.
Mom set the flowers down and wiped her hands on her apron. "So-young, be nice to your aunt. Li Na, stop stealing ingredients." She eyed the batter suspiciously. "Is that... coffee?"
"Espresso," I corrected, stirring vigorously. "Grandfather's been complaining about the coffee at the flagship store. Figured I'd give him caffeine in cake form."
Mom's lips twitched. "He'll hate that he loves it."
The cake was a three-layer monstrosity of dark chocolate and espresso, filled with salted caramel buttercream that had taken me three tries to get right. As I smoothed the final layer of ganache over the top, my hands shook slightly. This wasn't just any cake - it was the first birthday since we'd uncovered Jeong's journals, since we'd learned the truth about the Strain, since everything had changed.
Li Na nudged me. "It's missing something." Before I could protest, she produced a small glass vial from her pocket - Jeong's special cinnamon, the last batch he'd ever made. The spice glittered like fool's gold in the morning light.
"We shouldn't—"
"Just a pinch," she insisted.
The moment the cinnamon dusted the cake's surface, the kitchen filled with a scent that shouldn't have existed - warm bread and apricot blossoms and something indefinable that made my throat tighten. It smelled like childhood. Like safety. Like Jeong.
A tremendous crash from the courtyard shattered the moment.
Mom didn't even look up from arranging songpyeon. "Dae-ho?"
"Probably," Li Na sighed. "He was muttering about 'ice sculptures' earlier."
I peered out the window to see our cousin standing knee-deep in what appeared to be the remains of a very ambitious, very melted ice sculpture. From the few recognizable features left, it might have been Grandfather. Might.
Dae-ho caught me looking and waved cheerfully. "It's avant-garde!" he shouted through the glass.
The dining hall looked like something out of a historical drama when we finally wheeled the cake in. Crystal chandeliers, fresh peonies in Ming vases, and - for some reason I'd never understand - a string quartet playing something somber in the corner.
Grandfather sat at the head of the table in his best hanbok, looking about as thrilled as a man facing a tax audit.
Dae-ho went first, presenting a lumpy package wrapped in what looked suspiciously like one of the good linen napkins. "Happy birthday!"
Grandfather unwrapped it with the caution one might afford a live grenade. What emerged was... well, it was clay. Shaped into something that might, with imagination, be a face. Maybe.
"Is this... me?"
Dae-ho beamed. "It's your soul!"
Li Na made a sound like a teakettle boiling over. Mom pinched the bridge of her nose.
Grandfather set the sculpture down with exaggerated care. "I will... treasure it," he said in a tone that suggested it would be meeting an unfortunate accident before nightfall.
Li Na stepped up next, sliding a slim manila folder across the table. "Moon & Son's second quarter financial projections. Before they release them to shareholders."
That earned the barest quirk of Grandfather's lips - the equivalent of a standing ovation from him.
Then it was my turn.
The cake looked even more impressive under the chandelier light, the cinnamon dusting catching the glow like tiny stars. For the first time in my life, I saw genuine surprise on Grandfather's face. His eyes traced the perfect layers, the smooth ganache, lingering on the cinnamon that still carried Jeong's signature warmth.
Then - miracle of miracles - he reached out and pinched my cheek. "Too much frosting," he declared.
From anyone else, it would have been criticism. From Grandfather Han? It was practically a love letter.
Much later, after the guests had left and the quartet had packed up, I found myself alone in the kitchen picking at leftover cake. The sound of footsteps made me look up to see Grandfather in the doorway, his formal hanbok exchanged for a simpler robe.
Without a word, he sat beside me and took a fork. We ate in comfortable silence, the only sound the ticking of the kitchen clock.
It wasn't until he'd finished his slice that he spoke. "He would have been proud of you."
I didn't need to ask who he meant.
As Grandfather left, his hand lingered on my shoulder for just a second longer than necessary. Outside, a sudden breeze sent a shower of early apricot blossoms swirling through the courtyard like snow.
Or maybe like a ghost's quiet approval.