Copper & Thy was as warm inside as it had looked from the street.
The dining room was small—maybe ten tables, each with a simple white cloth and a single candle. The walls were painted a soft cream color, and copper pots hung from hooks along one wall, catching the candlelight like small suns. It slled incredible: roasted herbs, butter, sothing sweet baking in the back.
It felt like the street market and the upper district had sohow found a middle ground—beautiful but not pretentious, elevated but not cold.
"Sit," Simone said, gesturing to a table near the window. "I’ll get us so tea."
Marron sat, her eyes drawn back to the window display. The pot was even more striking from this side, backlit by the fading sunlight. She could see the inscription more clearly now—strange symbols that seed to shimr slightly, as if they were moving.
Simone returned with a teapot and two cups, settling across from Marron with a quiet sigh. "Long day," she said, pouring. "Always is when you run a place by yourself."
"You don’t have staff?"
"A few. But I do most of the cooking myself. That’s why I opened this place—I wanted to cook food I actually cared about, not just what would impress critics or attract investors." She slid a cup across to Marron. "The upper district doesn’t always understand that philosophy."
Marron took a sip. The tea was perfect—floral and slightly sweet, with a hint of sothing citrus. "How do you stay in business here, then?"
"Carefully." Simone smiled. "I have enough regulars who appreciate what I do. And my Guild certification helps—gives legitimacy in their eyes, even if my restaurant isn’t flashy." She gestured around. "This is what I wanted. Small, honest, mine."
Marron understood that feeling completely.
"So," Simone said, setting down her cup. "Tell about this dream."
Marron hesitated, then pulled out her mother’s notebook. She opened it to the sketch she’d made—the copper pot, rendered in quick pencil strokes but unmistakably the sa as the one in the window.
"I had it a week and a half ago," she began. "After I survived a mimic dungeon. I dread about... tools. Legendary Tools, I guess. Things made with such skill or magic that they beco sothing more than just cookware."
"And the pot was one of them?"
"Yes. A copper pot that never boils over. Perfect heat distribution, perfect control. It would an you could cook anything—stocks, stews, delicate sauces—without constantly watching and adjusting. You could trust it."
Simone was quiet for a long mont, studying the sketch. Then she looked at the pot in the window, and sothing complicated crossed her face—amusent mixed with sothing sadder.
"My grandmother told stories," she said slowly. "She was from the eastern provinces originally, ca to Luria when she was young. She brought that pot with her—said it was the only thing worth carrying across half a continent." Simone’s fingers traced the rim of her teacup. "She used it every day. Made soups that could cure illness, stocks that tasted like sunshine, stews that made you feel like you were ho no matter where you were."
"She sounds amazing."
"She was. She taught everything I know about cooking. Not technique—I learned that at the Guild—but heart. She taught that food is love made visible." Simone smiled sadly. "When she died, she left the pot. But I could never bring myself to use it. It felt... I don’t know. Too precious. Like I wasn’t worthy of it."
Marron understood that feeling too. She thought about how she’d chosen "food cart girl" on her rebirth form instead of "chef" because she hadn’t felt worthy of her mother’s title.
"What if—" Marron started, then stopped.
"What if what?"
"What if the pot’s been waiting for soone who is worthy? Not because they’re perfect, but because they’re ready?"
Simone’s expression shifted—still kind, but knowing now. Almost pitying. "You’re not the first person to say sothing like that."
"What do you an?"
"The pot." Simone stood and walked to the window display. "I’ve given it away eleven tis in the last fifteen years."
Marron blinked. "What?"
"Eleven tis," Simone repeated, lifting the pot carefully. "To chefs who walked by and saw it, who insisted they felt a connection, who dread about it or claid it was calling to them." She brought it back to the table and set it down between them. "Every single one brought it back within a week. Sotis less."
Marron stared at the pot, then at Simone. "Why?"
"Because it’s just a pot," Simone said gently. "A beautiful, well-made copper pot that my grandmother loved. But it’s not magic. It doesn’t control heat perfectly. It boils over just like any other pot if you’re not paying attention. The inscription—" She traced the symbols with her finger. "—is decorative. Old eastern script that nobody can read anymore, not even ."
"But the stories—"
"Were stories. My grandmother was a romantic. She loved turning ordinary things into legends." Simone’s voice was warm, not dismissive. "The pot was special to her because she cooked with love and patience. The food was magical because she was skilled. Not because the cookware was enchanted."
Marron felt sothing cold settle in her stomach. "But I dread about it. After the mimic dungeon, I saw it—"
"You saw a copper pot. A symbol of mastery, maybe. Of what you want to achieve." Simone pushed it across the table. "Take it anyway. Please. Use it, test it, see for yourself. If it’s what you’re looking for, wonderful. If not—" She shrugged. "Bring it back, like the others. No judgnt."
"You’re sure?"
"I’m sure. Honestly, at this point, I’m curious what makes people think it’s special. Maybe you’ll figure it out." Simone smiled. "And if it helps you cook better food—even just because you believe it will—then that’s magic enough, isn’t it?"
Marron reached out slowly and touched the pot. It felt... like a pot. Copper, cool to the touch, well-balanced but not impossibly so. No warmth, no welcoming feeling, no sense of rightness.
Just a very nice pot.
"Take it," Simone said again. "Really. I want you to."
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