The small shop called "Ember" on the corner of the back alley never hangs a sign, and only emits a tantalizing aroma at dusk. Legend has it that the boss was a young woman who could question the soul with burnt food. A charcoal black croissant tastes the unspoken retention of a lovelorn; half a piece of smoked mackerel tastes the last sight of the sea horizon of a missing sailor. The diners come with secret pain and swallow the "imperfect" dishes kissed by flames and pickled by time, but small explosions rise in their stomachs, exploding the hard shell of memory. She just watched quietly, cooking the past on the iron plate, like cooking a series of oily, wet dreams. Until one day, a man who claimed he couldn't taste anything pushed in the door, leaving behind half a plate of solidified fat and an old case that she couldn't "cook". Will everything on the tip of your tongue burn to ashes, or be reborn from the ashes?
