The sun had barely risen when Noura heard the knock.
It was light, polite—but persistent.
She opened the kitchen door to find Lira standing there, a travel cloak draped over her shoulder and a glint of excitement in her eyes.
"Up for an adventure?" she asked.
Noura blinked the sleep from her eyes. "Does it involve food?"
Lira laughed. "Even better. It involves spices. And a market that smells like ten different kinds of dreams."
***
They left Elderwood before the morning mist had fully lifted, walking east along a path lined with tall blue-leaved trees and early blooms that glowed faintly in the dawn. Lira walked with ease, humming softly. Noura, still half-asleep, clutched her satchel and tried to match her stride.
"Where are we going, again?" she asked, adjusting her shawl.
"To Wyswood. Market day," Lira said, her eyes sparkling. "They say the wind smells different every time, depending on what's being roasted or brewed."
Noura's stomach fluttered. The village had been kind to her. Her kitchen had become a place of comfort and nourishment. But she hadn't been beyond Elderwood since her arrival.
Today, she would see more of this world. Smell it. Taste it.
***
By midmorning, they reached the outskirts of Wyswood.
Unlike Elderwood's quiet stone cottages, Wyswood was spread across terraces, bustling and bright. Its main square bloomed with color and movement. Rows of tents stretched like sails in the wind. Baskets overflowed with fruit, cloth banners danced in the breeze, and the chatter of hundreds of voices wove into a living song.
And the smells.
Noura had never imagined so many aromas could coexist without chaos. Something sweet and smoky drifted from a food cart; sharp citrus and fermented tang hung near the fruit stalls; earthy, peppery warmth lingered in the spice rows. Her stomach growled.
"I told you," Lira said, nudging her with a grin. "A market that breathes."
***
They headed first to the spice section—a cluster of stalls tucked beneath a sloped red canopy. One stall in particular stopped Noura in her tracks.
Tiny ceramic bowls filled a long table, each holding a different powder, root, or dried leaf. The air shimmered with scent.
Noura leaned in, letting instinct take over.
She crushed a reddish-gold stem between her fingers and sniffed. A wave of warmth and memory flooded her.
"Turmeric," she whispered.
"Sunroot," the vendor corrected gently. She was an older woman with silver rings in her ears and a tattoo of vines on her forearm. "We dry it under fireglass. Very strong. Good for warmth and joint pain."
Noura nodded. "It's almost the same."
Beside the sunroot were round beige nuts with a faint sheen. She picked one up, sniffed it, and smiled.
"Candlenut. Or something very close."
"Stone-nut," the vendor offered. "Used for thickening broths. But grind it with care—it'll oil your fingers."
Noura moved along the table like she was in a trance. She found a knobby root that smelled like galangal, thin green stalks that snapped like lemongrass, and seeds that burst with a camphor-like bite—like cloves. Each scent awakened something old inside her, like echoes of her mother's kitchen.
Even the way the vendor wrapped the spices—folding leaves into little pouches and tying them with reed string—felt familiar.
"I don't know how this is possible," Noura said, almost to herself.
Lira tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
"These ingredients… they're not the same as the ones I knew. But the flavor, the scent—they're cousins. Maybe even siblings."
***
They continued exploring, and the deeper they wandered, the more delighted Noura became. She found a stalk with a lemon-mint aroma that mimicked daun jeruk. A dried root that had the sweetness of cinnamon bark. A paste that tasted like fermented shrimp.
"Terasi?" she gasped after sampling a tiny bit on the tip of her finger.
"Marra paste," the stall keeper said. "Made from sunfish and ground saltflower."
It wasn't exact—but it was close. The funk, the salt, the umami. All there.
Noura bought as much as she could carry, her satchel now bulging with wrapped leaves, glass vials, and spice-smelling cloth bundles.
"I need a cart," she muttered.
"No, I need a cart," Lira said, arms full of produce she'd picked up while Noura was distracted. "This was your idea."
***
They paused near a wooden bench to rest, right by the edge of the food vendor section. The smells there were different—cooked, heavy, alluring.
A griddle sizzled nearby. A tall man in a black apron flipped thin patties over a clay stove.
Noura wandered closer.
"What are these?" she asked.
"Flatcakes with roasted yam, ground root spice, and sweet glaze," the man replied. "Best eaten hot."
She bought two.
They sat on a low stone ledge to eat. The outer layer was crisp and charred, the inside soft and spiced. When Noura bit in, her eyes widened.
"This… this is like kue dadar, but earthier. And sweet without being sugary."
Lira bit into hers and gave a small nod of approval. "Not bad."
They tried more things: soup made from forest mushroom and fermented barley paste; grilled fish skewered on spiral twigs, glazed with a black syrup; pickled herbs served in tiny bowls made of baked dough.
Every dish surprised Noura. Some flavors clashed, others comforted. Some reminded her of childhood, others whispered something entirely new.
But all of it inspired her.
***
"Lira," she said quietly as they made their way back toward the village gate. "I think I could cook something new from all this."
Lira glanced at her. "You already do."
"No. I mean something different. A dish that belongs to this world—but is still mine. Something that tells both stories."
Lira smiled. "Then you better write it down before you forget."
Noura patted her satchel. "I already have. In my head. And tonight, in my kitchen."
***
They walked the rest of the way in easy silence. Behind them, the market still buzzed—breathing, laughing, whispering. Ahead of them, the road waited. And at the end of it, a hearth.
And a promise of something yet to be cooked.
That night, as Noura unpacked her market finds on the wide wooden table, the kitchen seemed to hum with anticipation. She arranged each spice and root in a careful line, taking notes on scent and texture. The divine knives flickered faintly, reacting to the new energy in the room.
She sliced a sliver of sunroot, pounded stone-nuts in the mortar, heated a tiny amount of marra paste until its aroma filled the air.
The recipes weren't written down yet—but they were already forming.
A sambal that used wild citrus and saltflower. A curry thickened with stone-nuts and brightened with lemon stalk. A grilled fish marinated in sweet-sour syrup and wrapped in broad leaves.
Each dish was a bridge: between worlds, between her past and her future.
She smiled as she wrote the first title in her grandmother's cookbook:
"The Taste of Two Worlds"
Outside, the night wind rustled the trees. Inside, Noura lit a candle and leaned over her notes.
She had seen the market. She had tasted its breath. And now, it was time to cook its whispers.
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