Chapter 6
Chapter 6
I landed in the Southern Territory in the early hours.
My parents were waiting at arrivals.
My mom spotted the bandage on my right arm the moment she saw me.
She didn't ask.
She just took my hand and gently held that arm, lips pressed into a flat line.
Her eyes went red.
My dad took the suitcase. His eyes rested on the bandage for two seconds, then he turned away, voice rough.
"Let's go home first."
Neither of them mentioned Cain the whole ride.
When we got home, my mom heated food and brought it out bowl by bowl.
Braised pork with herb noodles. Clear herb broth. Cold marinated mushrooms.
All recipes from my grandmother's compendium.
My mom had cooked alongside her from a young age and remembered quite a few of them.
Not quite the same as the original, but you could taste where they came from.
I held the bowl, and the bandage on my wrist scraped the rim. A small sting.
Tears dropped into the soup.
"Wren."
My mom sat across from me, pressing her fingers hard against the corners of her eyes.
"I won't push you to talk. But if it hurts, tell me. Don't swallow it."
I shook my head.
"We ended things. Nothing to talk about."
She didn't believe me.
But she didn't press.
She just made sure I ate, took my medication, and got my bandage changed every day.
On the fourth day, I was restless enough to ask if I could go see the shop.
She hesitated, then took me.
The Calloway Kitchen sign hung on the main strip of the Southern Territory's trading district.
You could smell the scallion oil noodles from the street.
Next door was a new small-pack operation — a man in a black T-shirt crouched out front polishing the sign. When he saw my mom bring someone over, he stood and nodded, gave a quick smile, didn't say anything more.
I followed her into the back kitchen.
Six stovetops on the counter, cooks working so fast their feet barely touched the ground. The sound of pots and knives mixed with the smell of smoke.
On the wall hung the menu board, and at the top:
"Calloway Kitchen — Three Generations of Pack Tradition."
Below it, a small line.
"Est. 1962. The Calloway Hearth, carried forward."
I stared at that line for a long time.
My mom stood beside me, voice quiet.
"After your dad built the Pack back up, he told me something — if Wren ever wants to come home, the Hearth is always here for her."
"Not a south-facing room."
"The Hearth. Stand at it. Keep your hands busy. And your heart will know where it belongs."
I didn't say anything back.
But that afternoon, I washed my hands, tied on an apron, and stepped up to the stovetop.
I sliced a plate of scallions.
Poured in a spoonful of sauce.
Boiled a bowl of noodles.
Then I added the scallion oil the way my grandmother did — lard in the pan, slow-fry the green onions, pour the soy along the edge of the hot iron, and it sizzles and fills the whole kitchen with the smell of char.
That recipe wasn't in any journal.
It was in me.
Because my grandmother had made it so many times and I had stood there watching for so many years.
Some things can't be burned, can't be destroyed, can't be taken.
They grow inside a person.
Cain didn't know that.
Serena definitely didn't.
After that, I spent my days helping at the shop and my evenings going over my dad's operational reports.
Calloway Kitchen had thirty-four locations in the Southern Territory, nineteen in the Western Territory, and eight in the Eastern Territory.
Annual revenue had broken three hundred million credits last year.
My dad was considering expanding into the Northern Territory next year. He needed someone who understood brand communication to build the team.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
"Let me do it."
He smiled and nodded.
Two weeks later, the bandages came off.
My right forearm had a scar the size of a palm.
The skin was puckered. A shade darker than the surrounding area.
Not ugly.
But it wasn't going away.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and touched it.
Where the smooth skin met the rough — a quiet dividing line.
The old part was over.
Something new had grown in its place.
Two months later, the Southern Territory's rainy season ended.
The sun came down like hot oil and bleached the pavement white.
I was in the Calloway Pack Headquarters office, going over next month's outreach plan.
The Alpha from the operation next door — I'd since learned his name was Rowan Hayes — knocked on the half-open door. He set a cold drink on the small table in the hallway, said "it's hot, stay hydrated," and left. No small talk. Didn't linger.
The shop manager knocked.
"Wren, there's someone outside looking for you. He's been standing there almost two hours. Won't leave."
I walked to the window and looked down.
Under the awning, there was a man who had lost a noticeable amount of weight.
White dress shirt, deeply wrinkled, like he'd been sitting on a plane for twelve hours and hadn't changed.
Dark stubble on his jaw.
Cain.