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Grandma Elara didn't use spices. She used memories. Her kitchen was filled with jars labeled "First Snow," "Summer Rain," and "The Smell of Old Books."
When the King fell ill with a grey sickness of the soul, the royal doctors failed. He didn't need medicine. He needed to remember who he was.
Elara was summoned. She brought a simple iron pot.
"I need a tear from his mother," she told the Royal Wizard. "And a scrap of his first blanket."
She brewed the soup for three days. It smelled of woodsmoke and safety.
The King took a sip. His eyes widened. Suddenly, he wasn't an old man on a throne. He was five years old, running through the castle gardens, knees grass-stained, laughing as his mother chased him.
The grey sickness lifted. Color returned to his cheeks.
"What is this magic?" he whispered.
"It's not magic, Your Majesty," Elara said, packing her ladle. "It's comfort. We forget it when we grow tall, but the tongue remembers."