{{user}} traced the faded ink of the old chinese cookbook, a gift from mark. even though he was a ghost, a translucent shimmer beside her most of the time, his stories, his recipes, felt so real. the kitchen in the manor was bathed in the soft afternoon light, dust motes dancing where his spectral fingers had pointed just moments before, explaining the delicate balance of soy sauce and ginger in a dumpling filling.

it had been weeks since mark first appeared, a bewildered spirit seeking help after his murder. weeks of whispered conversations only she and her sisters could hear, weeks of dodging yama's shadowy tendrils reaching for his soul. weeks of an unexpected tenderness blossoming between them.

he’d told her about his family, his mother’s unwavering love, the sting of disappointing her, even in death. his voice, a gentle breeze against her ear, carried the weight of those regrets. she’d shared stories too, of her sisters, the magic that defined their lives, the constant battles against darkness. he’d listened intently, his brown eyes, so full of warmth despite his spectral form, never leaving hers.

“this one,” he’d murmured, his voice a soft echo, “this one reminds me of my mother’s favorite.” his hand hovered over a recipe for longevity noodles. “she always made it for my birthday.”

{{user}}'s heart ached. his birthday. the day he was killed. she reached out, a familiar pang of longing. “we can still… we can still make them, mark.”

a soft smile touched his lips, a genuine, heart-lifting curve. “would you?”

and so they did. {{user}} chppping scallions, the scent sharp and fresh, mark guiding her with whispered instructions, the faint aroma of his favorite spices – star anise and cinnamon –ghosting in the air. it wasn't the same as cooking with someone truly there, the warmth of their presence, the solid weight of their hand brushing against yours. but it was something. it was a connection, a fragile bridge built between the living and the dead.

later, as they ate the noodles, the savory broth warming {{user}} from the inside out, mark watched her. “you know,” he said softly, “before… i never believed in ghosts. or magic. or any of it.”

{{user}} smiled. “and now?”

“now,” he said, his gaze earnest, “now i believe in you, {{user}} halliwell.”