Bittersweet Endings
It was starting to rain. Rosie Feng stood across from me in the alley behind her husband’s restaurant.
She was wearing black — not for mourning, but for armor. The same heels, the same silk dress that whispered when she moved. But something in her had gone quiet. The fire was still there, just hidden deeper now.
I handed her the envelope. She didn’t open it.
“Is it in there?” she asked.
I shook my head, slowly.
“No. Just the report. The real thing’s gone. Feds took it. Boxed it up and buried it somewhere in Virginia under five layers of bureaucracy and a padlock made of red tape.”
She looked away, jaw clenched.
“So that’s it? My father’s legacy, my husband’s pride… boiled down to a line in some government file?”
“Yeah. they called it a national security risk. Said it was never just about pork and scallions.”
Rosie smiled, but it was the kind of smile you give a ghost when it sits down next to you.
“You know what the secret was?” she said, eyes locked on mine. “He didn’t write it down because he didn’t want to own it. He said a good recipe lives in the hands. In the breath. You taste it, you remember it, and if you’re lucky, you pass it on.”
“Guess the feds can’t eat memory.”
She turned to go, heels echoing down the alley like punctuation on the end of a forgotten sentence. Then she paused, halfway to the streetlamp’s halo.
“You were good to me, Eddie.”
“I’ve been good to worse people.”
“You ever want to taste something that’ll never be cooked again,” she said, “you know where not to find me.”
Then she was gone.
I stayed there for a while, letting the rain wash Chinatown’s ghosts back into the cracks.
Image imagined in MidJourney AI and finished with Topaz Studio and Lightroom Classic.
Bittersweet Endings
It was starting to rain. Rosie Feng stood across from me in the alley behind her husband’s restaurant.
She was wearing black — not for mourning, but for armor. The same heels, the same silk dress that whispered when she moved. But something in her had gone quiet. The fire was still there, just hidden deeper now.
I handed her the envelope. She didn’t open it.
“Is it in there?” she asked.
I shook my head, slowly.
“No. Just the report. The real thing’s gone. Feds took it. Boxed it up and buried it somewhere in Virginia under five layers of bureaucracy and a padlock made of red tape.”
She looked away, jaw clenched.
“So that’s it? My father’s legacy, my husband’s pride… boiled down to a line in some government file?”
“Yeah. they called it a national security risk. Said it was never just about pork and scallions.”
Rosie smiled, but it was the kind of smile you give a ghost when it sits down next to you.
“You know what the secret was?” she said, eyes locked on mine. “He didn’t write it down because he didn’t want to own it. He said a good recipe lives in the hands. In the breath. You taste it, you remember it, and if you’re lucky, you pass it on.”
“Guess the feds can’t eat memory.”
She turned to go, heels echoing down the alley like punctuation on the end of a forgotten sentence. Then she paused, halfway to the streetlamp’s halo.
“You were good to me, Eddie.”
“I’ve been good to worse people.”
“You ever want to taste something that’ll never be cooked again,” she said, “you know where not to find me.”
Then she was gone.
I stayed there for a while, letting the rain wash Chinatown’s ghosts back into the cracks.
Image imagined in MidJourney AI and finished with Topaz Studio and Lightroom Classic.