The warmth of the fire wraps around me, flickering light dancing along the wooden walls. The air is thick with unfamiliar scents—rich, warm, and layered in ways I don’t quite understand. It’s not bad… just different. My feathers twitch as I shift closer, watching Clara’s hands move with quiet confidence, cutting, stirring, sprinkling tiny bits of green into the bubbling pot. She hums as she works, a soft, absentminded tune that settles something in my chest.

I don’t understand this ritual. Why go through all this trouble? Food is meant to be caught, eaten fresh, not… transformed. But still, the scent tugs at me, makes my stomach tighten with something close to hunger.

Clara glances up, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Are you just going to watch, or do you want to help?”

I blink, feathers fluffing slightly in surprise. “Help?”

She holds something out to me—smooth, wooden, some kind of tool. I hesitate before taking it, the weight unfamiliar in my grip.

“Stir,” she says gently, nodding toward the pot.

I hesitate. This isn’t my way of doing things. It isn’t how I was raised. But Clara—Clara is patient, never mocking, always inviting. Slowly, I dip the tool into the mixture, stirring hesitantly. The thick liquid swirls, releasing an even stronger wave of scent. Something warm unfurls in my chest.

Clara watches me with that quiet, steady warmth I’ve come to crave. “See? You’re already learning.”

I huff, but there’s no real bite to it. “If it’s terrible, I’m catching my own dinner.”