The morning light streaming through the kitchen windows felt like a personal attack. I groaned, peeling my cheek off the cold marble counter where I'd apparently fallen asleep mid-frosting last night. A string of drool connected my face to a half-finished piping bag of salted caramel buttercream. Classy.
"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," Li Na's voice cut through my haze. I cracked one eye open to see her rummaging through the refrigerator with the grace of a starving wolverine. The metallic clang of baking sheets and the sharp citrus scent of lemon zest told me Mom was already at work on damage control for last night's festivities.
"Please tell me there's coffee," I croaked, my voice rough from inhaling powdered sugar for twelve hours straight.
"Please tell me there's cake," Li Na countered, emerging with what looked like the last surviving slice of Grandfather's birthday cake. The fork stuck upright in the center told me exactly who'd gotten to it first.
"Dae-ho," we said in unison, our voices dripping with the particular exasperation reserved for our wayward cousin.
As if summoned by his name, the kitchen door burst open with enough force to rattle the copper pots hanging above the stove. Dae-ho stood in the doorway, his usually perfect hair sticking up in six different directions, his designer shirt wrinkled and - was that frosting on his collar?
"You have to see this!" he gasped, shoving his phone in my face before I'd even fully sat upright.
The screen showed a news article with the headline: "Moon & Son Executives Hospitalized After Attempt to Recreate Han Family Birthday Cake"
I blinked. Rubbed my eyes. Blinked again. "They... they tried to copy Grandfather's cake?"
Li Na snatched the phone, her eyes scanning the article with growing delight. "Oh, this is too good," she crowed. "Their R&D team used some synthetic cinnamon substitute and - wait for it - twelve people got sick. Twelve!" She scrolled further, her grin turning downright predatory. "And their VP of Operations projectile vomited all over the CEO's limited edition Gucci loafers."
I should have felt bad. Really, I should have. But after everything Moon & Son had done - the sabotage, the lies, nearly killing Mom with their Strain experiments - all I could muster was a tired grin. "Karma's a bitch."
The Miracle of Apricot Lane
The crisp March air hit me like a slap as I stumbled into the courtyard, still bleary-eyed from my kitchen counter nap. The apricot tree - Jeong's tree - stood sentinel in the center, its bare branches stretching toward the pale morning sky. I was about to turn back inside when a flash of gold caught my eye.
There, dangling impossibly from the highest reachable branch, was a single perfect apricot.
In March.
When the tree shouldn't fruit for at least another three months.
I stood frozen, my breath fogging in the cold air. Jeong had always said this tree bore fruit when the family needed reminding of something important. When I was little, I thought he meant it literally. Now... now I wasn't so sure.
The steady tap-tap-tap of Grandfather's cane announced his arrival before he spoke. He came to stand beside me, his sharp gaze fixed on that impossible fruit. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The only sounds were the distant chirping of sparrows and the faint hum of Seoul waking up beyond the estate walls.
Then, with a grunt that sounded suspiciously like "damn stubborn tree," he reached up with surprising agility for an octogenarian and plucked the fruit.
It sat warm in his palm, glowing like a tiny sun against his age-spotted skin. He turned it over once, twice, examining it with the same intensity he usually reserved for quarterly reports, before thrusting it toward me.
"Eat."
"But shouldn't we-"
"Eat it, So-young."
The first bite exploded across my tongue - honey-sweet with the distinct kick of Han family cinnamon, but underneath... something else. Something that tasted like Jeong's laugh and Mom's lullabies and the safety of childhood. My eyes burned unexpectedly.
Grandfather watched me chew, his expression softer than I'd ever seen it. "His favorite," was all he said. But the way his voice caught on the words told me everything I needed to know.
Operation: Salty Revenge
Li Na blew into the kitchen like a Category 5 hurricane, her designer coat dusted with white powder that I really hoped was flour. The manic gleam in her eyes told me she'd either discovered a new form of corporate espionage or finally lost her last marble.
"You," she announced, slamming a suspiciously lumpy burlap sack onto the counter, "are going to love this."
I eyed the bag warily. "Do I want to know?"
"Remember how Moon & Son's cake made people sick?"
"Vividly."
She untied the sack with a flourish, revealing not sugar, but...
"Is that our fleur de sel?" I gasped, recognizing the distinctive French sea salt we imported for Han Foods' luxury line.
"Five pounds of it," Li Na confirmed, her grin turning feral. "Currently sitting in Moon & Son's central kitchen, labeled as 'premium baking sugar.'"
I stared at her. "You didn't."
"Oh, I did." She leaned in conspiratorially. "And that's not all. Their entire vanilla extract shipment? Now aged soy sauce. The really pungent, fishy kind."
We locked eyes for exactly three seconds before collapsing into the kind of laughter that makes your ribs ache and your eyes water. Mom paused in her cake decorating to give us that special look reserved for when we were being particularly unhinged.
"This," I gasped between giggles, "is the best birthday present ever."
The Ghost in the Dough
That night, I dreamed of Jeong.
Not as the shadowy figure who haunted our kitchen, but as he'd been in life - sleeves rolled up to his elbows, flour dusting his dark hair like snow, kneading dough with those big, capable hands that always seemed to know exactly what the bread needed.
He didn't speak. Didn't need to. The way he worked - the sure, steady rhythm of his hands, the quiet hum under his breath - told me everything.
When I woke with a start at 3:17 AM (the witching hour for bakers and ghosts alike), two things struck me as odd:
My sheets smelled distinctly of cinnamon, despite having been washed yesterday.
The starter jar on my desk - the one with Jeong's original culture - was bubbling violently, as if someone had stirred it with particular vigor.
And unless sleepwalking had become my new hobby, I could've sworn I saw the distinct impression of a large handprint pressed into the dough.