The kitchen was sleek, modern, and barren.
Functional appliances, polished countertops, and a sterility that suggested it had never been touched.
Nos opened the freezer and exhaled through his nose. Row after row of vacuum-sealed meals stared back at him—high-protein, nutrient-dense, joyless. Labeled by content, not cuisine.
Vegetable Stir (no soy), Bantha Steak, Rationed Neutrali-Grain Loaf
He closed the freezer with a quiet click and turned to the pantry. Shelves organized with cold precision—several unopened boxes of pasta, one tin of baking powder, a jar of expired Nerf bouillon, a half-used spice rack with dust on the tops.
He could work with it.
He set aside dishes on the countertop.
Then he started cooking.
It was quiet work, and that was the point.
He found a bag of pearl couscous. Rinsed it. Let it soak in stock he made from the bouillon and dried herbs. Started a sauté—sliced the jarred mushroom medallions in the pantry, added what little garlic he could find, crisped it in oil with a pinch of paprika and cracked pepper from individual spice packets meant for something prepackaged but eaten without. When the aroma started to rise, he added the soaked couscous and ladled in the broth.
No burner was ever set higher than mid-heat, no movement rushed, a grounding and peaceful process. The one time his attention to detail was for perfecting something, not looking for danger in everyday life. He was making, not unmaking, and that brought silent comfort that he had forgotten.
He found some sun-dried tomatoes near the back, used them like garnish—chopped thin, folded into the pan near the end for sweetness and acidity. Plated everything slowly, deliberately. Garnished with an egg from the fridge, barely poached. Let the heat of the dish finish the whites.
He made two plates.
Both carefully portioned, seasoned to balance—not overloaded. He’d plated them without thinking. Not a soldier’s portion, not a survivalist’s ration.
A real meal.
He wiped the rim of the plate with a damp towel. Stepped back. Looked at it.
And for just a second, muscle memory betrayed him. His hand reached, like it always did, to hit the comm or datapad—
“Syl—”
But there was no comm. No datapad. No Senator on the other end. No
Lady Sylvia Organa
.
Just silence.
He stood still in the kitchen, hand suspended midair, looking down at the plates. The warmth from the food drifted up in slow curls of steam.
Nos lowered his arm. Slowly. Eyes still fixed. Turned a knob. The stove clicked off with a soft tic.
He stood there for a quiet moment, returning to the present from the brief trip to a fond memory.
Alone in someone else’s kitchen.
Nos Voros
