Day 1460 /Snapshot

Three years have swept by since my birth, and I've grown in ways I wouldn't have expected. I can now walk on two legs, my tiny feet pressing into the earth as I explore the world around me. Stumbling, falling, picking myself up again and again, I've learned the art of balance, the dance of mobility.

Language, once a cryptic symphony of sounds, has slowly revealed its secrets to me. I've come to understand the words of my parents, the villagers, the whispers of the wind. My mother has been my guide in this linguistic journey. She has taught me to read, her soft fingers tracing the letters, her voice a gentle lullaby as she pronounces each word. The world of books has opened up to me, their stories a feast from which I hungrily partake.

My father, a stalwart figure of strength and wisdom, has shown me the rhythms of the earth, the labor of the fields. He's taught me the magic of planting a seed, of nurturing it, of watching it grow. Through him, I've come to understand the quiet power of nature, the satisfaction of a day's hard work, the joy of a bountiful harvest.

Today was a special day. My mother, with a twinkle in her blue eyes, had declared that it was time for me to learn the alchemy of the kitchen.

"Come Lilly, it's time you learned how to cook," she said, leading me into the heart of our modest home. The kitchen was a warm, inviting space, filled with the aroma of herbs, spices, and the comforting scent of fresh bread.

"First, we must wash our hands," she instructed, demonstrating the process. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, scrubbing away invisible dirt. I mimicked her, enjoying the sensation of the cool water and the slickness of the soap.

Next, she introduced me to the ingredients for our meal. Each one had a distinct smell that filled my senses: the sharp tang of onions, the earthy scent of potatoes, the fresh fragrance of herbs plucked from our garden. I took in each scent, rolling them around in my mind, committing them to memory.

"Now, we chop the vegetables," she said, demonstrating with a swift precision that spoke of years of practice. The knife danced in her hands, reducing the vegetables to neat, uniform pieces. The rhythm of the knife against the chopping board was like a song, a lullaby that spoke of home and warmth.

My mother handed me a knife, its cool metal handle feeling heavy in my small hand. With a knowing smile, she presented the next challenge - an onion.

"Be careful, Lilly. The onion is a tricky fellow," she said, her blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

I was puzzled by her words, but I took the onion, feeling its papery skin under my fingers. The first cut released a sharp, pungent smell that filled the air, causing my eyes to water. Unprepared for this violent assault, I blinked rapidly, tears streaming down my face. It seems that onions in this world are much stronger than my previous life, that, or my little body is much more easily affected by it.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, dropping the knife as I wiped my eyes on my sleeve.

My mother chuckled, a warm, rich sound that echoed around the kitchen. "Ah, the onion's first defense," she said, her voice full of mirth. "Makes even the toughest warriors cry."

I squinted at her through my tear-filled eyes, a pout forming on my lips. "You could have warned me," I protested, though there was no real heat in my words.

"And miss that reaction? Never!" she replied, her laughter filling the kitchen once more. Despite the tears, I found myself joining in her laughter, the warmth of the moment seeping into my heart.

Of course, I knew the nature of onions from my previous life, but I allowed the moment to play out as though it were a surprise, embracing the innocence of this new existence.

With a mischievous grin, I decided to take the challenge up a notch. I closed my eyes, relying solely on touch and the mental image I'd formed. The knife felt like an extension of me as I carefully navigated the onion, reducing it into small cubes.

The sharp scent filled the air again, but this time, I was prepared. I kept my eyes firmly shut, concentrating on the feel of the onion beneath my hands, the rhythm of the knife. When I finally opened my eyes, a pile of finely chopped onion lay on the board.

My mother was watching me, her eyes wide with surprise. "Well, that's one way to avoid the onion's attack," she said, her voice filled with amusement and a hint of admiration. "I'm impressed, Lilly. You're a quick learner."

I beamed at her praise, my heart swelling with pride. This was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. It was a testament to the growth I'd made in these three years, a promise of the person I was becoming.

"Next up, we have the humble potato," my mother announced, her voice laced with an undercurrent of excitement. She handed me a round, brown tuber, its skin rough against my small hands.

"Potatoes can be a bit tough, Lilly. Here, let me show you," she said, taking a peeler from a nearby drawer. She held the potato in one hand, the peeler in the other, and with a swift, confident stroke, she began to remove the skin. The peeler made a satisfying scraping sound, and I watched as curls of brown skin fell away, revealing the white flesh beneath.

"Your turn," she said, handing me the peeler. The tool felt odd and unwieldy in my hands, but I gripped it tightly, determined to succeed.

The potato was indeed tougher than the onion, its dense flesh providing resistance. But with each stroke of the peeler, I started to get the hang of it. Before long, I had a skinned potato in my hands and a sense of accomplishment in my heart.

"Now, we cut it into small pieces," she said, guiding my hands as I held the knife. Together, we cut the potato, the knife meeting more resistance than it had with the onion. The pieces fell onto the chopping board, their white insides stark against the wood.

"Great job, Lilly!" my mother praised, her hands still resting on mine. "You're a natural in the kitchen."

Her praise warmed me more than any fire could. With every new skill I learned, I felt a deeper connection to this world, to my new life. And as I looked up at my mother, her blue eyes sparkling with pride, I felt a surge of affection. This was my family, my home, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

"Now, for the carrots and meat," my mother said, her hands already reaching for the next ingredients. She picked up a bright orange carrot, its vibrant color a stark contrast against her pale hands. With swift, deft strokes, she peeled and chopped it, then moved to the meat.

She handled the meat with a certain reverence, cutting it into even pieces. The smell of raw meat filled the air, rich and primal. "Quality ingredients make a quality dish,," she said, her eyes never leaving her work. "Always remember that."

Once the ingredients were prepared, she moved to the stove, a large pot waiting. She added a bit of oil, then the onions, their sizzle filling the kitchen with a delightful aroma. Next, she added the meat, its browning adding a new layer of scent to the air. The carrots and potatoes followed, their bright colors a cheerful sight in the pot.

"Now, the herbs," she said, reaching for a small bundle of fresh herbs from our garden. The smell of rosemary, thyme, and basil filled the air as she added them to the pot, their fragrant notes mingling with the other aromas to create a symphony of scents.

She stirred the pot, the ingredients dancing together, their colors and smells blending into a hearty stew. The simmering sound was soothing, like a lullaby whispered by the flame. The aroma of the stew filled the kitchen, a promise of the savory meal to come.

"Patience is key now," she said, her eyes on the simmering stew. "Good food takes time."

I nodded, taking in her words. The kitchen was not just a place of cooking, but a place of learning, of patience, of love. And as I watched my mother, her hands skillfully maneuvering in the kitchen, I knew this was a lesson I would carry with me always.

Just as the stew began to simmer, the kitchen door creaked open and in walked my father. His eyes were tired from a day's work in the fields, yet they still held a spark of life, of joy. The smell of the stew seemed to invigorate him, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath.

"Ah, the smell of a hearty stew," he said, his voice filled with appreciation. "You're teaching our little Lilly to cook already, are you?"

He looked at me then, a playful glint in his eyes. I could see the pride in his gaze, the love. And despite the tired lines on his face, he smiled, his joy contagious.

"Yes, I am," my mother replied, her voice filled with both pride and affection. "And she's a quick learner."

I beamed at their words, a warm glow spreading through my chest. This was the family I was a part of, a simple yet infinitely precious bond. And as I looked at my father, his smile reflecting my own, I knew I was not just learning to cook. I was learning about love, about patience, about family. And those were lessons I would cherish forever.

As my father moved closer, his hand raised to gently ruffle my hair, a sudden fear coursed through me. I winced and involuntarily stepped back, memories of a past life surging forward. The harsh reality of my previous existence, filled with beatings and fear, momentarily overshadowed the warmth of my current life.

The playful smile on my father's face faltered, replaced by a look of concern. His hand, which had been heading towards my hair, fell back to his side. "Lilly?" he asked, his voice soft and filled with worry.

My mother, who had been watching the exchange, quickly set her spoon down and came over to me. "Lilly, what's wrong?" she asked, her blue eyes filled with concern.

I blinked, forcing the memories back. I looked up at them, my new parents, their faces filled with worry for me. They were not the people from my past. They were kind, they were gentle, they were... family.

"I... I'm sorry," I stammered, "I... it's nothing. I just remembered something... from a dream."

Their eyes met over my head, exchanging a silent conversation. Then, my father squatted down to my level, his eyes level with mine. "Lilly," he said, his voice gentle, "if you ever want to talk about your dreams, we're here for you. Okay?"

I nodded, a small smile tugging at my lips. "Okay, papa."

His hand once again lifted, slower this time, and gently ruffled my hair. There was no fear this time, only the comforting touch of a loving father.

As his words filled the air, my father pulled me into a gentle hug, his strong arms enveloping me with warmth and security. I could feel the steady rhythm of his heart against my ear, a comforting reminder of his love and presence.

"Lilly," he said, his voice low and filled with emotion, "I want you to know that I would never, ever hurt you. You're my little treasure."

His words echoed in the silent kitchen, their weight sinking into the very marrow of my bones. I could feel my mother's eyes on us, could feel her silent support and love wrapping around us like a warm blanket.

In that moment, surrounded by my family, their love filling the room, I felt a sense of peace and security that I had never known in my previous life. Despite the memories that occasionally haunted me, I knew I had found a safe haven in this new life of mine.

I tightened my arms around my father, my small hands clutching his shirt. "I know, Papa," I whispered, my voice filled with trust and love. "I love you."

The kitchen was filled with a warmth that had nothing to do with the simmering stew. It was the warmth of love, of family. And as I stood there, embraced by my father, I knew I was home. I must leave my past trauma behind, I am not in danger here.