The mushrooms Walnut gave me were something else entirely.
When I pulled them from the Void Pantry that morning, the aroma had deepened overnight. I'd let just a little time flow through them — enough to draw out some of the moisture — and now they carried a faint earthiness alongside a subtle, unexpected sweetness. I stood at the kitchen counter and thought about what to make.
I'd already decided on mushroom risotto. It wasn't from Mom's recipe notebook — I'd taught myself this one in college, during a phase when I was obsessed with cooking and would stay up late scrolling through food blogs. Back then, exhausted from job hunting, I used to stand in my tiny apartment and stir risotto in a small pot just to feel like myself again.
I coated the bottom of the pan with olive oil and started softening finely diced onion. Once it turned translucent, I added the short-grain rice I'd kept in the Void Pantry and stirred it all together. I worked the wooden spoon slowly, waiting until each grain was glossy with oil.
I ladled in warm broth a little at a time, and while the rice quietly absorbed it, I looked out the window. A small bird had landed in the persimmon tree in the yard. I thought of the birdsong I'd heard in the forest yesterday — clear and bright in a way I'd never noticed in the city.
When the risotto was nearly done, I sliced Walnut's mushrooms thin and folded them in, then finished with a knob of butter and a shower of freshly grated Parmigiano. A gentle shake of the pan, and the texture came together — creamy, loose, just right. I spooned it into a small lunch container. Today, I was eating breakfast in the forest.
The forest welcomed me again.
Walnut was already at the clearing when I arrived. A little closer than yesterday — curled up right beside the rock where I usually sit, tail wrapped around her paws. When she heard my footsteps, her ears pricked up and her small nose twitched, reading the air.
"Something special today."
I opened the container. The deep, savory scent of mushroom and cheese drifted into the clean forest air. Walnut's eyes went wide, fixed on my hands. I spooned a small portion onto a little wooden dish and let it cool, then set it gently in front of her.
This time, she didn't hesitate. She lapped at the cream sauce first, then dove into the rice with quiet focus. I took a bite of my own. The mushrooms' rich, earthy flavor melted into the creamy risotto on my tongue.
"Hm. I actually did a good job with this."
I wasn't talking to anyone. Just thinking out loud. But in that moment, something small and quiet rose up inside me. *Good job, me.*
It had been a long time since I'd said that to myself.
After we finished eating, I sat still and looked out at the trees. Walnut had rested her chin on my knee and was dozing, her breathing soft and even. I let myself think.
*Why did just sitting still feel so wrong when I was working?*
Doing nothing had felt like a kind of guilt back then — like someone was always about to point at me and call me useless. But here, in this forest, no one was asking anything of me. Just sitting. Breathing. Eating. Looking. I was slowly learning that this, too, was enough.
That's when I saw it. A flicker of light from across the clearing. I turned my head carefully, not wanting to wake Walnut. Near the base of a tree, tucked between moss-covered rocks, something small was glowing.
I got up to look. It was a tiny wildflower — but each petal held a faint, silvery light, as if it had soaked up moonlight and was slowly releasing it. Around the flower, the soil had been gently tidied, as though careful, invisible hands had been at work. I thought of the shimmer I'd seen when I first found the Void Pantry.
*This forest isn't ordinary.*
I didn't pick the flower. I left it exactly where it was. Instead, I cleared away a little of the weeds around it, then took a small water bottle from the Void Pantry and dampened the soil. The flower seemed to glow a little brighter after that.
On the walk home, I felt spring arriving in my bones. Unnamed wildflowers were opening along the forest path, and pale green shoots were pushing up along the stream bank. Walnut trotted behind me, pausing now and then to press her nose into the grass.
When I got back and opened the front door, I happened to glance across the yard. The house across the street — a small place — had a second-floor window open. A woman who looked about my age lived there. She usually kept her curtains drawn during the day, like someone whose hours had flipped, but today was different.
She was looking at me through the window. I gave an awkward little nod. She nodded back, small and brief, then closed the window.
*I wonder if she's going through something like this too.*
Back in the kitchen, sliding the leftover risotto into the fridge, I thought: maybe tomorrow I could bake a little extra bread and bring some over. I didn't know if she'd want it. But the idea of handing something to someone — that felt like it might be a small joy for me, too.
That evening, I took a few sprigs of lavender from the Void Pantry and tucked them into a little glass bottle on the kitchen table. Then I opened Mom's baking book and started looking for tomorrow's recipe.
"What should I bake tomorrow..."
I was turning pages when my hand stopped. A recipe a friend of Mom's had given her: *Honey and Walnut Ciabatta.*
Walnut.
I smiled. I'd have to bring her some, I thought — and I reached out to touch the dried chamomile petal pressed between the pages, handling it like something worth keeping.