The Soup That Wouldn’t Let Go

The first sign something was wrong was the smell.

Not “oops, I left something on the stove” wrong.

Not “burnt toast at six in the morning” wrong.

This was… spiritually delicious wrong.

A smell like toasted spice, warm rain, and a secret you weren’t

allowed to remember.

It floated through the apartment like it owned the place.

Kataike stood in her kitchen holding a wooden spoon like a

microphone, staring at a pot of soup that had absolutely no

right smelling that good. She had followed the recipe loosely,

because recipes, in her experience, were more like suggestions

whispered by strangers, but this felt different.

Intentional.

Her younger child, Orye-Boo, appeared instantly, as if

summoned by scent alone.

“Mom,” Orye-Boo said in the solemn tone reserved for

emergencies and dessert. “I can smell the soup from my brain.”

Awo-Moo-Kin burst in behind them, taller, louder, already

suspicious. “That soup is too confident. I don’t trust it.”

Kataike sniffed again.

The soup did not smell like food.

It smelled like a portal.

“Okay,” she said carefully, “everybody breathe normally.”

They did not.

Her partner wandered in next, holding a phone and wearing the

expression of someone trying very hard to remain calm while

surrounded by mystery.

“What is it?” he asked.

Kataike lifted the lid slowly, like someone opening a treasure

chest in a movie.

Steam rose in a perfect spiral.

The spiral—Kataike could swear—made a tiny shape before

dissolving.

A little question mark.

Orye-Boo gasped. “Mom. It’s doing magic punctuation.”

Awo-Moo-Kin pointed dramatically. “I told you. The soup is

confident.”

Kataike stared into the pot.

Carrots. Kale. Ginger. Turmeric. Coconut milk. Herbs.

Normal ingredients.

A normal pot.

Except the steam kept making shapes.

This time it looked like a small goat wearing sunglasses.

Her partner squinted. “Is your soup… doing interpretive art?”

Kataike touched her chest. She was calm. She had meditated.

She had survived homeschooling. She had negotiated with

children over socks. She could handle soup.

Then the spoon began to tap on the pot by itself.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Orye-Boo whispered, “Mom… it’s calling the ancestors.”

Kataike lowered her voice. “Okay. We’re not panicking. We’re

just… observing.”

Tap-tap-tap.

The steam formed a word.

EAT.

Awo-Moo-Kin backed up. “NOPE. That’s how horror movies

start. The food tells you to eat it, and then you become soup.”

Her partner cleared his throat, attempting science. “It’s just

steam patterns.”

The steam formed another word.

NOW.

Her partner blinked. “Okay, well… science is complicated.”

Kataike took a slow breath and did what she always did when

reality became slightly unreasonable.

She spoke to it like it was a child.

“Hello,” she said to the soup. “We respect you. But you do not

get to boss us around.”

The soup responded by producing a steam-shape of a tiny

crown.

Orye-Boo giggled. “It thinks it’s a king.”

Awo-Moo-Kin leaned in. “Or a witch.”

At the word witch, the kitchen lights flickered once.

Not dramatic, just a blink, like the apartment itself was saying,

Oh. You noticed?

Kataike set the spoon down.

“Okay,” she said. “Everyone go sit. We’re going to eat. But we’re

going to eat… respectfully.”

They lined up with bowls like they were approaching a sacred

ceremony or a suspicious vending machine.

Kataike ladled the soup.

It made a sound as it poured, like a soft hmm, the kind you

make when you taste something and realize you’ve been under-

seasoning your life.

Orye-Boo took the first bite.

Their eyes widened.

They froze.

Kataike’s stomach dropped. “Orye-Boo?”

Orye-Boo pulled the spoon out slowly. “Mom,” they said in awe.

“I… I can hear drums.”

Awo-Moo-Kin snapped their head around. “What kind of

drums?”

“Not scary,” Orye-Boo said. “Like far away. Like a celebration.”

Her partner took a bite.

Paused.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “I’m… standing on a beach.”

Kataike tasted the soup.

Her tongue barely touched it before the kitchen blurred.

Water, wide and alive. A lake with grandmother energy.

Laughter. Singing. Hands clapping. Roasted maize. Something

sweet and unnamed.

She blinked.

The kitchen returned.

Awo-Moo-Kin stared into their bowl like it owed them answers.

“What do you see?” Kataike asked gently.

Awo-Moo-Kin took a bite.

Their face scrunched. Softened. Scrunched again.

“I see…” they began, then stopped.

“What?” Orye-Boo leaned forward.

Awo-Moo-Kin whispered, “I see a man dancing in public.”

Her partner raised an eyebrow. “In public.”

Awo-Moo-Kin nodded seriously. “Everyone’s watching. But no

one’s mocking. It’s… brave.”

Kataike’s breath caught.

“Do you see where?” she asked.

Awo-Moo-Kin shrugged. “Mountains. Singing. A crowd acting

like it’s normal.”

Orye-Boo’s eyes went huge. “That’s Bugisu!”

Awo-Moo-Kin blinked. “What’s Bugisu?”

Kataike set her spoon down slowly.

The soup had no sense of privacy.

Awo-Moo-Kin continued, softer now. “The man isn’t scared. He’s

like, I am doing this. And everyone is like, Yes. We see you.”

Her partner stared into the bowl. “My soup is now teaching

anthropology.”

Orye-Boo said reverently, “This soup is educational.”

Awo-Moo-Kin narrowed their eyes at Kataike. “Mom. Did you

put a spell in the soup?”

“I put turmeric,” Kataike said.

The steam made a shape that looked suspiciously like a wink.

Orye-Boo grinned. “It’s a destiny soup.”

Awo-Moo-Kin crossed their arms. “My destiny is to not be

tricked by soup.”

Her partner tried another bite. “I’m in Japan. Someone is

offering me something fermented. I’m scared.”

Orye-Boo perked up. “Noodles?”

“No,” her partner said. “A purple star fruit. It’s judging me.”

Kataike laughed, and the sound loosened the room.

The soup kept steaming, patient and confident.

Maybe magic was just what happened when ordinary life was

handled with attention.

And maybe the real spell was deciding to share it.

The soup did not rush them.

It never boiled over. It never demanded more than it already

had. It sat on the stove like something ancient that knew better

than to appear desperate.

Outside, the world continued. A car door slammed. Someone

laughed. A siren forgot why it had been called.

Inside, four people sat quietly, eating a soup that had decided to

remember the world for them.

Eventually, the visions softened. The steam stopped shaping

itself into meaning. The pot became just a pot again.

Normal.

Almost.

That night, the apartment felt attended to.

And Kataike knew this much for sure:

Some meals are not meant to fill the stomach.

Some are meant to remind us who we are connected to.

And sometimes, if you’re paying attention, soup will tell you

exactly what you didn’t know you were hungry for.

More stories coming soon.