Last Service

Emma stood over the prep station, her hands mechanically chopping spinach. The mound of green had started as a representation of her commitment to local sourcing, to craft, to giving a damn about the kind of restaurant she'd dreamed of opening. Now it was just Wednesday's special, reduced to components on a sheet pan. Her knife hit the cutting board with a rhythm that matched the dull throb behind her eyes.

She'd slept three hours. Again.

Through the kitchen's pass, she could see him sitting at table four—the same table he'd occupied every Thursday for three months. Daniel would order the duck confit, request the orange reduction on the side, and leave an excessively generous tip. They'd never spoken outside the context of his order, but his eyes had been saying things the menu couldn't hold. He was married. She was married to this restaurant, to the dream that had curdled into something that felt suspiciously like a prison sentence.

Lightning cracked the sky outside, and the dining room flinched. The power dipped, then surged. In that second of darkness, Emma didn't check the ovens or reach for the flashlight. She stood frozen, feeling the strange liberation of everything falling apart. Service halted. Expectations suspended. The world broken open.

She walked out the back door, apron still on, and stood in the rain as the storm tore through the city. The spinach would wilt. The duck would overcook. Daniel would wait. Let him.

Behind her, through the propped door, she heard her name being called. She didn't turn. Some storms you weather. Some you become.