Stirring Up the Past

Esme stood in the center of her kitchen, staring at the sleek marble countertops like they belonged to someone else. In a way, they did. This was her house, technically, but she had spent the last year floating through it like a ghost, barely interacting with the space beyond the necessary movements — microwaving pre-packaged meals, drinking coffee straight from the pot, stacking dirty dishes in the sink and leaving them there until she couldn't anymore.

Her kitchen, once a place of refuge, had become a tomb. Once a place that held evening conversations and promises for the future, her kitchen now only held her voice as she talked to herself, echoing off the walls as she quickly shuffled in and out.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, she was going to cook.

It was a small act, but it felt enormous. Like reclaiming something that had been taken from her.

The divorce was final now. The signatures were dry, the fight was over, and the silence in the house was hers alone to fill. She had spent so long paralyzed by the weight of it all — by the failure, by the loneliness, by the gnawing question of who she even was outside of the life she had built with him. Once, she craved cooking. She loved the rhythm of it, the way a kitchen came alive with sizzles and the scent of caramelizing onions, the satisfaction of plating something she had made with her own hands. But somewhere between the fights and the exhaustion, she had stopped. Meals became something to endure, not create.

Now, here she was, faced with something deceptively simple: a raw chicken breast, a pan, and the overwhelming need to prove — to herself, to no one else — that she could do this.

Esme took a deep breath and turned toward the fridge. Then she hesitated.

Gigi.

Her grandmother had always been the kind of woman who could command a kitchen, who could turn a handful of ingredients into something magical, something that made people lean in close and savor. Gigi had been fire and confidence, the kind of woman who made everything feel possible. When Esme was a child, she had spent hours watching her, absorbing the way she moved, the way she cooked without hesitation, without second-guessing herself.

She needed that now.

But, Gigi was gone.

Esme straightened her spine, rolled up her sleeves, and reached for the cutting board and Gigi’s spoon.

She never thought much of the old wooden spoon she inherited from her grandmother. It was scratched and stained from years of use, the handle smoothed by the grip of countless family meals. She ran a finger over the worn wood, remembering how Gigi would tap the spoon against the side of a pot when she was about to deliver a piece of wisdom — the way you season food is the way you season life, Esme. Be bold, but don’t let the salt do all the work.

The spoon had been an heirloom, her grandmother told her. It has been passed down for many generations, and came from the old country, Gigi always said with a wink.

“Why are you blinking, Gigi?” Esme had asked when she was a little girl.

“It’s winking, my Esme, and it’s because there is much to say about the old country. But, you’re too young. Maybe later. Grab the onion.”

With that, Esme did as she was told, and whenever she asked, the subject was changed. As she grew older, Esme imagined that the old country held hard memories, grief, struggle – and Gigi had no room in her life for such things. Still, it made Esme wonder about Gigi before she was a Gigi.

As Esme poured the ingredients she had chopped into the pot, she began to stir absentmindedly. Taking a sip of wine, she paused, and heard a familiar voice, warm and full of mischief.

"Too much salt, darling. A little more thyme, and you’ll have it just right."

Esme nearly dropped the spoon. It wasn’t just a voice — it was her grandmother’s voice.

She tested the spoon again. "Gigi?" she whispered.

"Who else, dear? You think your mother’s voice would come from a spoon? Please. Now, taste that broth. What does it need?"

Her breath caught in her throat. The voice wasn’t just a trick of memory; it was here, alive in the wood, infused in the air around her. The moment should have frightened her, but instead, warmth spread through her chest, like the feeling of stepping into a sunlit room on a winter morning.

As Esme cooked from this day forward, the spoon guided her — not just with recipes, but with memories. Each time she used it, a scent or a flavor would unlock a piece of the past. The sharp tang of lemon brought back summers in Gigi’s kitchen, making lemonade and sneaking bites of cake batter. The rich, slow-simmered stew filled the air with laughter from long-lost Sunday dinners.

And then, one night, something even stranger happened. She was stirring a batch of cookies when the spoon trembled in her hand. A vision swirled into the batter, showing her a moment from decades ago — her Gigi at the same counter, crying softly into her hands.

"Not all recipes are for food, my love," the spoon murmured. "Some are for healing. Some are for forgetting. Some are for revenge." Such odd words, but so true. Esme pressed a hand to her heart, understanding settling deep within her. This spoon wasn’t just preserving flavors. It was preserving love, loss, and family history. And so, Esme stirred on, knowing that with every dish, a little piece of her Gigi lived on.

One evening, after weeks of cooking with Gigi’s spoon, Esme set the table for one. But this time, it didn’t feel lonely.

She had made a meal from scratch — rosemary chicken, roasted vegetables, a side of creamy mashed potatoes. The kind of meal Gigi would have served with a wink and a knowing smile. She sat down, took a bite, and let the warmth of it settle deep inside her.

She glanced at the wooden spoon resting beside her plate, its handle tilted toward her like an invitation. It was quiet tonight. Maybe it had said all it needed to. Maybe Gigi knew Esme was ready.

Esme looked around the kitchen — the same kitchen that had once felt so foreign, so hollow. Now, it smelled of garlic and fresh herbs. A soft candle flickered by the window, its glow making the countertops gleam. A stack of clean dishes waited by the sink, proof that she had done this, that she was capable. That she was home.

She picked up her phone and, without overthinking, sent a message to an old friend:

Dinner tomorrow? I’ll cook.

Then, smiling to herself, she reached for her wine glass. On impulse, she set a second plate on the table across from her, just for a moment, just to see.

She lifted her glass.

"To you, Gigi," she whispered.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence in the house didn’t feel empty. It felt full.

Esme wiped her hands on a dish towel, contentment settling into her bones. The kitchen smelled of roasted rosemary and garlic, the kind of rich, welcoming scent that made a house feel like home. She ran her fingers over the wooden spoon, tracing the familiar grooves, the places where time had worn it smooth.

"You did well tonight, darling," Gigi’s voice murmured, warm and approving.

Esme smiled, savoring the praise. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to enjoy cooking, to feel connected to something greater than herself.

She yearned for more of this feeling – this completeness and this calm. Esme was still struggling; her ex-husband had begun to harass her, more and more. These texts, and comments, and unexpected dropping by powerfully eroded her progress. A simple set of words could set her back days. While there were moments of happiness, where she finally felt herself, there were an equal amount of evenings spent laying on her couch, curled up, protecting herself from the world and herself.

Esme surveyed the room, willing herself to keep going today, at least. As she reached for the spoon again, a chill rippled up her arm. The wood felt – different. Not warm and familiar, but oddly damp, as though it had been left soaking in water for hours. She frowned and turned it over in her hand. A thin crack had formed along the handle, one she hadn’t noticed before.

"Gigi?" she asked cautiously.

Silence.

Shrugging off the unease, she began to clear her place, taking the dishes to the sink, setting the spoon on the counter. But as she lifted the spoon to place it in the sudsy water, something flickered at the edge of her vision.

A shadow.

No — more than a shadow. A movement, a ripple in the air, like heat rising off pavement. She turned sharply, but the kitchen was empty. She placed the spoon on the counter, leaning back, and surveying the room, along with the half empty wine bottle on the counter.

She let out a nervous laugh. "Okay, maybe I need to lay off the wine."

Then the spoon twitched.

Not in her hand — on its own. Just a small shift, rolling slightly against the counter.

Esme froze.

It had to be her imagination. Maybe the counter wasn’t level. Maybe she had nudged it without realizing. But even as she reached for it again, a strange thought wormed its way into her mind — was the spoon heavier than before?

She gripped it tightly. "Gigi? If this is some kind of joke —"

A sharp, wet crack echoed through the kitchen. It was the same sound Esme had heard a million times before – Gigi hitting the spot to release any sauce.

Esme gasped and looked down. A splinter of wood had peeled back from the handle, curling like a jagged fingernail. And there, just beneath the crack, was something she had never noticed before.

Etched faintly into the wood was a name — Theodora

Her breath caught.

Theodora?

Not her grandmother’s name.

Not anyone she recognized.

The spoon trembled in her grip, and then, ever so softly, a voice whispered — not Gigi’s voice, not warm or familiar, but something thinner, stretched, a rasp of something forgotten.

"Not all recipes are for food, my love…"

The words twisted, a distorted echo of what Gigi had once said, but now laced with something else. Something darker.

Esme dropped the spoon with a sharp clatter, her heart hammering in her chest.

And from the depths of the house, where the shadows pooled thick and silent, something knocked — once, twice — against the far wall.

Slow. Deliberate.

Like the tap of a wooden spoon against a pot.

She stood frozen, her breath shallow, pulse thrumming in her ears. The knock did not come again, but the silence that followed felt alive, waiting.

Esme looked back at the spoon, now lying still against the countertop. Yet the weight of it lingered in her palm, a ghostly imprint against her skin. The name — Theodora — marked it as something more than an heirloom. It had been held before, gripped tightly by another, someone whose presence still clung to the grain of the wood. This was never just Gigi’s. It had passed through other hands, carrying stories, burdens, voices. Theodora had turned to it once, searching for comfort, for guidance. But whatever they had found had left something behind.

Something that had never really left.

Esme swallowed hard and reached for her phone. A quick search. A name, maybe. Some connection to this house, to her family, to whoever Theodora had been. Her fingers hovered over the screen, hesitating. Of course one name would turn up nothing, she thought. Pausing, she questioned, Who are you?

Then, as if in answer, the spoon moved again.

Just a fraction.

Just enough to let her know she wasn’t alone.

Esme traced the letters on the spoon’s handle, her fingertip catching on the thin crack in the wood. Theodora. The weight of them pressed against her, solid and undeniable, as if the spoon had been waiting for her to notice.

She had always believed in the power of objects. A quilt could hold warmth beyond its fabric, a ring could whisper the stories of those who had worn it before. But this was different. The spoon didn’t just hold memories — it carried them, dragged them forward, bled them into her kitchen like ink seeping through paper.

The air shifted. She became aware of the silence pressing against her, thick and expectant. Esme swallowed, forcing herself to move, to shake off the unease curling at the edges of her thoughts.

The scent of a smoldering campfire filled the air.

Esme frowned. She had finished cooking. And yet, the air was thick with the smell of roasted herbs, of warmth, of something just on the edge of familiarity.

A chill ran up her spine. Slowly, she turned toward the microwave, the glossy black door reflecting the dim kitchen behind her. Her own face stared back — wide-eyed, tense, lips slightly parted.

Then her reflection blinked. And, waved.

Esme hadn’t.

Her stomach clenched. She took a slow step forward, heart hammering against her ribs. It had to be a trick of the light, her mind playing games with her. But as she reached the microwave door, she realized the reflection wasn’t quite right. The kitchen behind her wasn’t her kitchen. The countertops were the same, but the backsplash was different — faded tile where there should have been smooth marble. The cabinets had changed, too, their modern finish replaced by something older, darker.

And the woman staring back at her was not just a reflection.

Her own features were there, but wrong — her face sharper, gaunter, eyes deeper set. The woman lifted a hand. Esme’s breath caught in her throat as she realized her own hand was still at her side.

The spoon trembled in her grip.

The woman in the reflection slowly, deliberately, pointed at it.

A whisper curled through the air, barely audible, threading itself into her bones. Not all recipes are for food, my love.

Esme gasped and dropped the spoon. It clattered against the counter, spinning before coming to a dead stop.

Behind her, the silence even held its breath.

Then, from the far end of the house —

Knock.

Once. Twice.

The same deliberate rhythm Gigi used to tap against a pot before offering a piece of wisdom.

But this wasn’t Gigi.

The air thickened. Esme felt it — the weight of something pressing in, something waiting. The scent of rosemary turned acrid, like burning wood. She swallowed, her throat dry as she reached, hesitantly, for the spoon again. Her fingers wrapped around the handle, the wood oddly damp, heavy.

And then —

The world shifted.

Just for a second. The kitchen around her wavered, like heat rising off pavement. The shadows in the corners stretched, deepened. The smell of burnt herbs thickened. She wasn’t standing in her kitchen anymore. She was standing in someone else’s.

And, in front of her was an open recipe book lay before her on the counter, its pages yellowed with age. Ink, scrawled in spidery handwriting, bled into the parchment like fresh wounds. The words made no sense:

One whisper caught in glass.

A pinch of yesterday’s sorrow.

Heat until the air thickens.

A rustle sounded behind her. The reflection in the microwave was no longer hers.

The spoon pulsed in her grip, and a voice — not Gigi’s, not hers, but something stretched and distant — murmured in her ear.

Finish the recipe.

This wasn’t a recipe for nourishment. It wasn’t even for healing.

It was for retribution.

Esme traced the words on the page, feeling something stir inside her — something quiet, something long-suppressed. Her ex-husband’s face flashed in her mind, the sneering smirk, the way his words could cut sharper than any blade. The texts, the calls, the way he would show up unannounced just to remind her that leaving hadn’t freed her.

Esme squeezed her eyes shut. Her pulse roared in her ears. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. And yet —

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound came from the walls this time. Surrounding her. Enclosing her.

She opened her eyes.

The recipe book was gone. The microwave reflected only her own pale, trembling face. The spoon was still in her hand, but now, the crack in the handle had deepened, splintering down the wood like veins branching beneath the skin.

She had a choice.

She could walk away. Toss the spoon in the trash. Burn it. Never cook with it again.

Or she could finish the recipe.

Esme exhaled slowly, then reached for a pot.