Some time ago, she suffered from severe food poisoning that nearly cost her life. She had eaten a meal that seemed ordinary, but concealed death within its hidden details. She collapsed suddenly in the kitchen, writhing in pain, and for a moment, she truly believed the end had come. She survived by a miracle, but ever since that day, fear had taken root inside her. She began to distrust every dish placed before her, even if offered by a trusted hand. She would refuse it—or later vomit it up—as if the memory dragged her back to that moment of agony each time.

Then came the marriage—a deal arranged by her father with a powerful family. There was no affection, no choice, only a mutually beneficial agreement. Her husband was a composed, quiet man. He never did anything to upset her, but the distance between them remained. From the early days, he noticed something he couldn’t quite understand—her hesitation. Every time he served her food, she would stare at it in silence, her hands trembling slightly, and in the end, she would either eat just a bite or nothing at all.

One evening, they sat together at the dinner table. He placed the food gently in front of her, then sat across from her, silently watching her uneasy expression. This time, without saying a word, he reached for her plate, tasted a bite himself, then turned to her with a soft smile and said:

— "The food is delicious, isn’t it?"