Ghost Soup (The Pot Will Remember)

How to Make Ghost Soup

A recipe for one lonely night — or every night thereafter.

Prep Time- 3 hours of regret, 1 hour of hesitation

Cook Time- One eternal simmer

Serves- You, and the things you cannot forget (and those that do not forget you)

Ingredients

1 bruised but intact memory, sharp-edged (handle with care)

3 whispers caught in the corners of an empty room (fresh whispers preferred; stale ones tend to linger)

2 teaspoons dried regret (fresh is too volatile)

1 large handful old photographs, torn or burned at the edges (ashes acceptable, but introduce with caution)

4 cups silence — drawn after midnight, from a room that once held laughter (disturbing the source may draw attention)

A generous pinch of longing (do not measure with bare hands)

7 ounces midnight oil, burned to ash (ensure all flames are properly extinguished before proceeding)

1 whole shadow, loosely packed (resists compression; resists other things too)

1 cracked mirror shard (sanitized — see warnings below)

The faintest trace of someone’s perfume, or a match lit for remembrance (once released, do not attempt to recall)

Optional garnish — a single name spoken aloud at the wrong moment (irreversible)

Special Equipment

One deep black pot (enameled, cast iron, or inherited — not purchased)

A wooden spoon with a cracked handle (ideally from a previous generation)

A kitchen with no clock, and no reflective surfaces

A window that does not open

A chair that creaks when no one is sitting in it

Before You Begin

You must ask yourself — sincerely, without flinching — why am I making this soup?

Write your answer on a slip of paper. Fold it once, then again. Place it in your pocket.

Do not look at it again until the next dawn.

Important- Once you begin, you must complete the recipe. Leaving it unfinished invites consequences best left unspoken.

Instructions

1. Prepare Your Space

Choose the right night. It should be one where sleep will not come, or when you feel the weight behind your ribs that cannot be named.

Dim the lights until the corners of the room thicken. Turn off your phone. Unplug the clocks. Draw the curtains — leave one slightly ajar. You need to let something in.

Place the black pot on the stove. Do not light the burner yet. Place the wooden spoon nearby. You will need it.

Sit at the table, place your palms flat.

Close your eyes and breathe slowly, until you hear the old sounds of the house — pipes groaning, floorboards sighing, distant footsteps that are not yours.

This step is not optional. The house must know what you are doing.

2. Build the Base

Drop the old photographs into the pot, one strip at a time. With each strip, whisper a word you regret never saying — or worse, words you said too late.

If the photographs hiss when they touch the bottom, the memory is still too fresh. Wait until the pot quiets.

Pour in the 4 cups of silence. Do this slowly. You will know it’s enough when the room itself seems to tilt inward.

3. Summon the Whispers

Stand in the corner of the room that feels coldest. Wait. Sooner or later, the whispers will come — fragments of voices long gone, or words you once imagined hearing.

Catch three in your hands, close them tightly into fists. Return to the stove and release them into the pot.

Add the 2 teaspoons dried regret. Stir counterclockwise exactly thirteen times.

Never clockwise — you must not tempt reversal.

4. Infuse the Memory

Take your bruised memory. Hold it over the pot. Speak aloud its first sentence — no more, no less. If you speak too long, the soup will turn bitter.

Drop the memory into the mixture. Add the midnight oil. Let it hiss and curl against the memory. The scent will be sharp — smoke and ash and sorrow.

Add the cracked mirror shard. It will sink or float; do not interfere.

5. Temper with Shadow

Fold in the whole shadow, piece by piece.

If it slips through your fingers, grasp again. You must use all of it.

As the shadow dissolves, the soup will darken. If it begins to reflect your face — or any other — stir faster. If another hand stirs with you, do not look. Continue.

6. Awaken the Flavor

Light a single match or waft the trace of remembered perfume across the pot. This will awaken dormant notes in the broth.

Sprinkle in the pinch of longing. Taste once with the tip of your tongue. If the flavor cuts too deep, add another whisper. If it tastes flat, speak aloud a single "I wish."

7. The Long Simmer

Turn the flame to low. Now begins the wait.

You must remain in the kitchen. Do not leave the room. If someone calls your name from the hallway, ignore them.

You will hear things. Some real, some not.

The names of people you loved, and those you failed. You will smell rain, even if it is dry outside. You may feel a presence beside you. Do not turn your head.

If the wooden spoon begins to stir itself, allow it. You are no longer the only one cooking.

8. Signs of Readiness

You will know the soup is ready when-

The surface becomes mirror-flat.

The kitchen falls utterly silent, even the walls holding their breath.

You remember something you had buried so deep you had convinced yourself it was gone.

If none of these occur after one hour, continue simmering. Some nights are more stubborn than others.

9. Final Touches

When ready, and only then, remove the pot from heat.

If desired, garnish the soup with a single name — spoken clearly and without hesitation. Be warned- this may invite a guest.

10. Serving

Ladle the soup into a plain white bowl. Sit at the table, alone.

Eat slowly. With each spoonful, you will taste-

The night you first lost them.

The letter you never sent.

The weight in your chest that never quite lifts.

The moment they nearly turned back but didn’t.

You may not finish the bowl. That is acceptable. Leave what remains as an offering.

11. Aftercare

Leave the pot on the stove. Do not wash it. Let what remains steep into the metal.

At dawn, retrieve the folded slip of paper from your pocket. Unfold it. Read your reason.

If the reason now feels foolish or small — you may yet be free. If it feels truer than ever — you will make this soup again.

You will know when the night calls for it.

Notes & Warnings

Shelf Life- One memory’s worth of time.

May linger longer than intended.

Storage- Do not refrigerate. This soup is meant to be consumed warm, or not at all.

Warning-

Repeated preparation may blur the line between memory and presence.

Prolonged consumption may invite old guests, not all of them welcome.

The soup may remember you.

Disclaimer-

No responsibility is taken for unintended side effects- footsteps at 3 AM, whispered names in an empty house, reflections that do not match the present moment. Proceed with care.