He tasted it.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“It needs more lime,” Charles said.
Hannah stared at him.
His face went pale. “I am sorry. That was foolish.”
“No,” she said. “My mother always said the same thing.”
Charles looked at the bowl. “She was right.”
“She usually was.”
He took another spoonful.
They did not become what they had been before. There was no clean way back to that life. But they began something smaller and more truthful. Charles told her stories about Lucía that Hannah had never heard. Hannah corrected him whenever he softened his own guilt. He listened.
One evening, he brought her a packet of seeds.
“What are these?”
“Your mother’s herbs. I found them in an old storage box.”
Hannah opened the packet.
Cilantro. Mexican oregano. Dried chile seeds.
“She grew these behind the stall,” he said. “She said the smell helped her remember home.”
Hannah held the seeds close to her chest.
“Thank you.”
Charles nodded.
He did not say he was proud of her.
He did not say she had forgiven him.
He knew better now.
The following spring, Hannah planted the seeds in wooden boxes behind the kitchen. The herbs grew thick and bright. Customers began bringing their children to see them. The neighborhood vendors donated tables, chairs, bowls, and painted tiles. Someone brought a blue curtain for the back doorway.
Luke came on opening day carrying a crate of fresh fish.
He set it down and waited.
Hannah looked at him.
“You can stay,” she said.
His breath left him slowly.
“Thank you.”
“You are working in the kitchen.”
