The airplane shuddered as it passes through the clouds, revealing the sun-drenched coastline of Marseille below. So-young pressed her nose against the tiny window, her breath fogging the glass. The Mediterranean sparkled like a vast, blueish green sheet of rolled fondant, dotted with white sails that reminded her of the flour boats Grandfather used to make for her when she was small.
Dae-ho kicked the back of her seat. "Do you think they have corndogs in France?"
Mother sighed, rubbing her temples. "We're raising a barbarian."
Father chuckled, unfolding a well-worn map covered in Seong-ho's cramped handwriting. The edges were singed in one corner, as if someone had tried to burn it long ago. So-young traced the faded ink with her finger—notes about bakeries, ingredient suppliers, and one circled address with "Claire—tell her I'm sorry" scribbled beside it.
Jeong's mist swirled against the airplane window, forming shapes that melted faster than butter in a hot pan—a fox chasing a croissant, a wave crashing over a tiny house.
Great-Auntie's patisserie smelled like every good memory So-young had ever had of baking, with an extra layer of something foreign and exciting—maybe the lavender hanging in bunches from the ceiling, or the sharp tang of French cheese in the air. The elderly woman wiped her hands on an apron that had seen decades of use and pulled So-young into a flour-dusted hug.
"About time," she grumbled in Korean, her voice rough as sea salt. "Your uncle's ghost has been pestering me for years to teach you properly."
The back wall was covered in photos—Seong-ho standing proudly beside a much younger Great-Auntie, Seong-ho laughing with a dark-haired woman in front of the Eiffel Tower, Seong-ho kneading dough in what looked like a ship's galley.
"Who—" So-young started.
"Claire," Great-Auntie said shortly, slamming a ledger onto the table. "Now pay attention. We're making viennoiserie today, and I won't have you embarrassing me like your uncle did his first month here."
That night, So-young followed the glow of Jeong's mist through Marseille's winding streets. The salt air clung to her skin as she turned down an alley that shouldn't have been there—a narrow passage that smelled of burnt sugar and regret.
The stall at the end had no sign, just three items displayed on a rough wooden table:
Glass jars filled with something dark and swirling that pulsed like a heartbeat.
A photograph of Zhou Meixiu shaking hands with a man in a white lab coat.
A half-burned scrap of paper with the words "The Hans must never know about—"
Jeong's form flickered wildly, his mist turning black at the edges. "This is where they learned to weaponize memory," he whispered, his voice fraying like old thread.
At dawn, So-young dipped her fingers into the Mediterranean, gasping as the water hummed against her skin. Tiny sparks of light danced between her fingertips, mirroring the glow of Jeong's mist.
Dae-ho, ankle-deep in the surf, frowned. "Why's the water doing that?"
Jeong materialized fully beside her, more solid than she'd ever seen him. His fox form shimmered with seawater, droplets hanging in the air around him like suspended sugar syrup. "Salt preserves," he murmured. "And this sea remembers every ship, every sailor, every secret it's ever carried."
Great-Auntie's voice carried from the shore, sharp as a knife. "Enough lollygagging! We've got brioche to proof and a hundred other things you don't know how to do properly!"
As the first French sunrise painted the kitchen gold, So-young realized some recipes crossed oceans, but all ghosts came home eventually.