“Choose. Your fate—or theirs. But know this: even if you drink the “empty one,” it will still leave a mark.”
The gray man looked at the glasses. His fingers were shaking.
“We were once human too,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Before we chose to forget everything. To be ‘above.’ To rule.”
He slowly reached for the glass of cloves.
That night the teahouse did not close. It remained open until dawn. The gray man left without a word. But his fingers smelled of cloves. He did not drink. But he took his memory with him.
Alfredo brewed tea again. He knew: there were more to come. And not everyone would choose to remember. But the song was already playing. And it couldn’t be stopped.
Chapter III. Powder and spices
As the tearoom fell silent again, somewhere beyond the mountains, in a land with no name on maps, a man named Raphael sat in an ancient monastery carved into the rock itself. Everything there smelled not of time but of his absence. The wind carried the dry scent of cardamom and ash, and the walls whispered in a language no one was learning anymore.
Raphael “read” – not with his eyes. He touched with his fingers petals, powders, dry pods, from which rose an invisible smoke of memories. Every spice in the world carried a sound, a feeling, an energy. And among them, cloves – the most vocal.
It is a key. The most ancient guardian. The one who “hears pain.” That is why they have banned it, tried to eradicate it, hidden its true power behind recipes and festive aromas. But it has waited for centuries. And here it is — it has responded.
Rafael knew: once Alfredo heard the song, others began to activate—those called “Guardians of Taste.” There were nine of them. Each was associated with a specific spice, each was driven by a different emotion.
Cardamom – the memory of love.
Turmeric – the pain of healing.
Black pepper – anger and justice.
Cinnamon – the warmth of the past.
Star anise – fear and courage.
Ginger – movement and desire.
Nutmeg – sleep and revelation.
Cumin – ritual and devotion.
Clove – loss and awakening.
Raphael had to gather them before it was too late. Because the shadow that had come to Alfredo was only a vanguard. The real threat was called “Synthesis.” These were those who had once given up on tastes, smells, feelings. Their goal was to erase the memory of spices and replace everything with synthesized forms – without soul, without consequences, without truth.
Meanwhile, Alfredo began to hear the songs not only in the teapot. In his dreams. He saw a woman with eyes the color of turmeric. A girl drawing patterns with cardamom on fogged glass. A man turning into a storm of black pepper.
They were calling him.
And he left.
Before he left, he left the teahouse open. On the table was a note:
“If you smell the aroma — do not be afraid. It does not call — it remembers. Drink as if you remember yourself.
— Alfredo.”
He took some dried cloves, an old copper travel kettle, and a map that could not be read with the eyes—only with the nose. It always smelled of a certain spice. And the road south smelled pungent—of ginger and salt.
So he set off. Behind him — no one. But above him — a song that others could already hear.
At the same time, in the desert city of Ubar—long erased from the atlases—a woman in a purple shawl poured cinnamon into a bowl, watching it burn and disappear into thin air. She felt a shiver.
“He’s coming,” she said.
A man stepped out of the shadows. His pupils were like cat’s slits. His skin was as white as parchment. He didn’t blink.
“We must close the circle before it is torn out of harmony,” the woman continued. “The carnation is open. The others will awaken quickly.”
The man bowed his head.
“Then it is time to wake the Sleeping Pepper. Let the flame remember its anger.”
And that night, in one of the kitchens of Istanbul, a man woke up to the smell of black pepper seeping through locked doors.
He got up without asking why.
The song began to sound in many hearts.
And she was getting stronger.
Chapter IV. The Memory of Cardamom
In the heart of the old Bukhara quarter, where the aromas of spices lived in the bricks and the exhalations of the walls, there was a small shop, invisible from the street. Tourists don’t find it. They don’t look for it. It opens only – for those who already remember, even if they don’t know.
Inside is a woman named Leila. Her hair is the color of toasted saffron, her eyes are like dark cardamom seeds: deep within they hide a warmth and something unsettling. She doesn’t just sell spices. She heals with aroma.
When a person entered, she did not ask why he had come. She would look – and reach for a jar. For one she would put a pinch of cardamom in the palm of her hand, for another – in a glass of warm milk. Sometimes – she would simply sprinkle it at her feet. And then what moderns call “mysticism”, and the ancients – “remembrance” would happen.
Because cardamom is associated with love. But not only with joy, as we are used to thinking. It holds all the nuances: lost, impossible, unrevealed, treacherous. It reveals feelings too strong to be experienced once. It gives a chance to be experienced again — and to let go.
Leila was the Cardamom Keeper. She remembered the day she had awakened. Nineteen years ago, when, weeping over her dying brother, she had dropped a few cardamom seeds into a bowl of milk to warm him. He did not come to life. But in that moment she had seen his eyes—full of light, without pain, without fear. He was smiling. And then, when she was left alone, she felt the walls speak. The aromas came to life. The cardamom whispered, “From now on, you are Most.”
Since then she has been waiting. She knew: one day the One who will carry the song forward will appear.
And he came.
Alfredo stood at the entrance, covered in road dust, his face tired from dreams. He didn’t speak, but Leila already knew. The carnation had awakened. So her time had come too.
“Do you hear that?” she said quietly, handing him a glass.
He nodded. The steam from the cardamom milk enveloped his face. The memory of a mother’s hands caressing his head surfaced. The laughter of the girl he loved but didn’t wait. The smell of the evening kitchen, where his father first taught him to add spices to a sauce.
He cried. Silently. Hotly. Truly. It wasn’t pain—it was love that he couldn’t hold back, but he managed to preserve.
“Cardamom doesn’t cure,” said Leila. “It opens. And you are the one who opened us.”
Alfredo took out the map. The line to Bukhara smelled different now—of caramel and smoke. He marked Leila’s shop as “Place of Memory.”
“Will you come with us?” he asked.
“I do not leave the place where memory lives. I am an anchor. But when it is time for the final round, I will be there.”
He nodded. Leila went over to the shelf and pulled out a small bundle. Inside were three cardamom seeds tied with black thread.
“This is a Heart Knot. You will untie it when you forget why you started it. It will remind you. But only once.”
Alfredo left at sunrise.
