Dear V. J. White,

We are pleased to extend you an offer for an internship position at our Food and Lifestyle Department. The position is scheduled to begin on the 20th of October, Monday. You will be reporting to James Winscott, sub-editor of the restaurant review column, and Ruth Watson, senior editor of food journalism. We anticipate that your appointment will continue at least through the 31st of December, contingent upon your training progress, program needs, and satisfactory performance.

We look forward to furthering your journey as a writer and food critic, as well as providing you with various opportunities to experience the culinary world in many special ways. Please find attached the instructions to set up a work email and key materials for your first day at work. Should you require any further assistance regarding the offer and position, please contact our Recruiting Department at 010 13092883.

Regards,

The New York Times

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Rain in the fall is spicy as they say; simmering with a scent of cinnamon, warm and muted as the thunder above. There was a sharpness in his nose, the imminence of a chill thankfully soothed by the dull fragrance of his muffler. Chamomile. Dead, crisp leaves turned a chilly wetness under grey skies and stick to the bottom of his loafers as he passed a bare tree, walking down the sidewalk and making his way to the grocery store for some precious time spent with his godfather.

The plan was to shop for some ingredients. Just enough for a small, humble evening dinner party. One that would satisfy warm tummies and leave a smile on their faces for the rest of the night but really, hardly anything made by Chip Honeycutt wasn't of such nature and this was no surprise to Vanilla, especially when it came to occasions like these.

He spotted his godfather waiting outside the grocery store with a basket in hand, gaze fixed on the row of shopping carts right beside him as though unsure of which to pick. His hair was slightly tousled by the wind, honeyed rays of sunshine reduced to a messy fluff.

"Nillie!" He called out as soon as their eyes met, waving on tiptoes as though the former action alone wasn't enough to catch the attention of most people. Fortunately, Vanilla found himself blessed with a substantial vantage point. At present, he was nearly a head taller than his godfather.

They greeted each other with a hug before mutually agreeing on the shopping cart, heading into the store and escaping from the rain. Chip pulled out a list, handwritten and traditional with boxes on the side; a product of parenting and typical baker's habit combined.

"So um! Your uncle said he'd leave tonight's menu completely up to us. Wh-which is a first, isn't it? He's always been especially strict on your diet." They proceeded down the vegetable aisle, hunting for roots and leaves like a bunny and a deer. "Oh! Oh these parsnips look yummy. Should we do something like a vegetable roast? I had that on the list but it's always best to consult the birthday boy. Hehe."

Vanilla had given the slip of paper a glimpse and, within seconds, known exactly what Chip was planning just from the ingredients he'd listed down. Needless to say, he had no objections to raise. Partly because he'd never really had to heart to reject anything suggested by his godfather primarily due to the fact that he'd never really thought about his own birthday dinner menu.

Things like that often required knowing the select few favorites of the subject and while that was certainly no monstrous feat when it came to ordinary human beings, Vanilla Julian White, the epitome of truth and objectivity, had long quelled the idea of favor and biases when it came to food.

Or so he thought.

"W-what about something a little sinful, then?" His godfather offered in a whisper, an eager sparkle in his eyes that resembled the excitement of a flower hearing secrets brought by a passing summer breeze. "You know. Like pudding."

"Pudding's rather tame for sinful, don't you think," said Vanilla, smiling wryly. "Shall we head to the dry goods section for chips and instant ramen instead? Imagine the look on Uncle Al's face with those on the dinner table. 'Impossibly Imbecilic!' Or something along those lines."

This had his godfather bursting into giggles and with the pair full of mirth and imagination, the cart was soon full of premium instant ramen, elevated by ingredients for a homemade sauce, and vegetables to go along with it. And as they passed the condiment section and moved on to the next aisle for baking goods, Chip pointed out a spot on the floor by a row of wholegrain Dijon mustards.

"You know, that's where we first met," he laughed, a sentimental smile upon his lips. "Fourteen years ago, when you were a tiny little bundle of snow."

This came as a surprise. While he vaguely remembered encountering his godfather's family in a grocery store at the age of four or five years old, he'd never really heard of the specifics. The image in his head was a blur, filled with the honeyed sweetness of a sunset afternoon and smiles that tasted like strawberries.

"Xan nearly knocked you over with the cart you know. A-and you were a little genius! Just like you are now but, hehe, without the little," he indicated by raising his gaze at the eighteen-year-old who'd long surpassed him in height, but reaching up to pat his head nevertheless. "You were counting the number of products in the condiments section, right here. Standing still with those huge round glasses and in the cutest little pair of shorts and suspenders.

"Being so clever with your words and and... vocabulary! You were a tiny walking thesaurus and so well-behaved even when you were anxious about your uncle. I don't think you even cried one bit! I know I would have. Hehe. I cry very easily," he admitted with a laugh, picking up Giselle's favorite bag of chips—seaweed flavored—and setting that into the cart.

Vanilla went along with it, nodding and trying to somehow remember more of everything that happened when he was younger. There weren't very much. He did retain glimpses of important events, categorized by the taste of that moment; the first time he met Chip, Xander and Giselle, honey. The wedding, strawberries and a bit of rain. The time Uncle Al reprimanded him for taking his coin pouch without permission and sneaking off to Chip's bakery, chimichurri.

And then there were other things. Other things like reading a book under a window. Oscar Wilde. Maple. Racing a kart down peach beach in the sunset breeze was southern fried chicken and watching a group of critics tearing Annie apart was licorice and dirt combined.

Then there was that one other taste; the one taste he could never forget.

The taste that was a sound.

"You were so cute! So small." Chip seemed to demonstrate with cupped hands, as though imagining a tiny version of his companion shrunk to the size of an apple. "And now, you're all grown up! Though um, you've always been very grown up. Much, much too grown up." They led the cart down the dry goods section and into the next. His godfather turned to him with a smile that was sad.

"When you were young, your uncle was always very worried about you. About you making friends a-and and, going to school, and whatnot. Always afraid that you'd 'end up like him' he always says those silly things."

They both laughed, because the image of Uncle Al scampering around with crossed arms and a briefcase was always complete with a frown and altogether, it produced a highly amusing form of concern.

"And now... for dessert..." Their attention returned to the pressing matter at hand. Tonight's menu. Of course, Chip did not hesitate to direct this at Vanilla and of course, the latter fell back on the usual excuse.

"It doesn't really matter as long as you are the one making it. I'm sure it will taste phenomenal." "You know, back then you actually wrote that word down for this review you insisted on writing for the bakery." "I did?" "Yes! Phenomenal! I knew you were a genius but I-I mean for a four-year-old to know such a word, let alone spell it perfectly without hesitation was just... everyone was so impressed."

They passed an entire shelf of pudding at the dairy section and the line-up never failed to stop Chip in his tracks, eyes lighting up at his very own version of heaven. A new flavor had caught his eye at once.

"Vanilla Fudge! A-and a layer of strawberry puree at the bottom! Doesn't that sound delicious? Oh but there's the seasonal soy chocolate pudding too... but would there be enough space for all that in the freezer? Mm..." He found himself at crossroads. Aside, Vanilla was terribly amused. He stood by the cart, allowing his godfather to take his time with the decision.

Alas, he went for two servings of the new flavor, placing them neatly into the cart. And then after a quick pause, went back to fetch four servings of the chocolate pudding.

"You know your uncle would be so mad at me if he found out I'd been feeding you stuff like this when you were much younger. Especially pudding."

Vanilla smiled fondly, taking over the cart that had gotten slightly harder to push. "Well. As long as he doesn't find out." They laughed together.

Needless to say, the young man was very glad that things had come to a point like this; that parallel paths had somehow converged despite the nature of strangers. That Chip and his uncle had met, that their families had gotten close, and that they were always there for each other. There were things that geniuses could have worked out on their own. Read books that explained the workings of the universe.

And yet, there were things beyond books and the genius of a mind that could only be filled by the teachings of the heart and his godfather was one such example.

His phone buzzed. It was a text from Violet Birchwood. A birthday wish. Curt and demanding as always, but strangely warm despite its digital nature. He'd missed another one from fifteen minutes ago. Chef Marseille.

There were others too. Earlier today. Si Yin. Ariq. Layla. Chen. Even Miss Rachel. He had not expected that many people to remember his birthday despite having graduated from culinary school. The feeling was very foreign.

"Alright. Home we go!" Chip announced after the pair emerged from the grocery store with bags of goodies and headed for the family car. They loaded up the trunk within minutes and his godfather had eagerly demonstrated his exceptional driving skills (also refusal to beep at other drivers doing silly things on the road and extreme politeness in general) all the way to his humble abode.

The dinner party was to be held at the Honeycutt-Jaxon's place, only because Vanilla's aunt and uncle had run out of ideas and Chip's family had recently renovated the first floor of their house for the hosting of more guests. Apparently, Xander had, under the influence of his husband, become increasingly accepting of having visitors over. Sometimes, he even liked it.

So as the October wind chilled roads and the surface of the windows at the setting of the sun, the kitchen of the Honeycutt-Jaxon house was packed with its head chef and tiny little assistants; namely all of the Honeycutt-Jaxon kids. Including Vanilla. He'd always been considered as one of their own.

Xander had driven Atlas home from university for the weekend and since Rory's extra baseball practice had been cancelled by their coach, she, too, found herself helping out with the extravagant, yet humble menu of baked potatoes, roasted root veggies, hotpot Korean army stew with instant ramen, and garlic butter pork chops in a mushroom cream sauce.

The dinner was warm and cozy, topped with a pumpkin pie Chip had baked earlier in the day and complete with a ton of presents from family. There was a hand-knitted vest from Giselle, handed over by Xander in a classy black matte box and then a vintage typewriter from the strawberry couple, originally intended for him to 'look the part of a critic.' Surprisingly, this had been Xander's idea. Chip had suggested a rustic gramophone, which, too, would have been absolutely welcome, but much harder to source for.

This all had got Uncle Al snorting in laughter. "Yes yes, we critics live in the past and adore the old-fashioned ways," rolling his eyes in sarcasm.

Miki and Rory had presented the birthday boy with a very, very fancy double-walled glass coffee mug with a wooden handle attached. It was the perfect gift for a writer, exuding elegance and authenticity. Perfect for a morning of fresh creativity.

And because Atlas had apparently reeled in a golden cash cow whilst juggling his studies in university, he'd gifted Vanilla a whole new MacBook air that would come in handy for his internship in New York. Completely out of his own pocket.

Vanilla hadn't the slightest clue where and how Atlas managed to afford such a big-ticket item (and the latest version of it) but despite his protests and refusal to accept the gift, the entire Honeycutt-Jaxon family, excluding Miki, seemed perfectly calm about the birthday present. He'd accepted it by promising Atlas he'd return the money in installments. With interest.

"Just take it," said Xander to Vanilla, eyes fixed on his eldest son nevertheless. "He's swimming in spare cash. You have no idea." "B-b-but how did he—?" "Moving on."

And then it was Alfred Dempsey himself, the man behind Vanilla's discipline, passion, and necessity for integrity and the truth. Not in a lifetime did Alfred imagine his sister's child becoming something of a protégé, following in his footsteps and sharing his love and commitment to anything on a plate. That, combined with the boy's natural prowess as a writer, fellow truth-seeker—he saw his nephew as a prolific food critic and most importantly, an honorable man.

"Eighteen." He said slowly, presenting Vanilla with a box; slim and lightweight. "The age of dreaming ends here, Vanille." Inside was Alfred's first-ever fountain pen. A gold nib, complemented by gold embellishments in the impression of a lion. One gifted to him by the person he considered the greatest storyteller of all time. "Now is the time you go after them."

Vanilla received it with two hands, as though this was some sort of royal procession (in his head, it was, really), and appeared as calm as he could. "I will."

The night came to standstill for uncle and nephew, master and apprentice, two people with personalities and worldviews so frighteningly similar and yet, impossibly different. Several Honeycutt-Jaxons snuck out of the living room to give them some privacy (also because Chip was very sure about Alfred being on the verge of tears but holding it in for the sake of an audience). It was time for the cake.

There were no questions; it had to be strawberry shortcake.

Indeed, it was the same every year with the lot. A habit. The usual. This time however, since eighteen was a special little number and Chip was not one to miss out on special occasions, he made sure to add a little extra. Just a little more strawberries—halved and fanned out in a simple, yet, elegant design. Rory zipped out of the kitchen with plates and forks.

"What about the candles?" said Miki when his daddy readied the cake on a tray and handed it to him. "You forgot about them."

"Oh! There's no need. Just this will do, Miki. Let's go!" They emerged from the kitchen with the cake and smiles were immediate. Vanilla sat at dining table, his chair in the middle and cake knife in hand.

There was no surprise. No turning off the lights or any extravaganza for the eighteen-year-old. The song was sung and the cake was cut, everyone happy with their portion except Uncle Al who'd chided Chip about the extra strawberries. The latter had laughed in a sheepish manner, dismissing critic disappointment about the 'strawberry to cream to sponge ratio' with swift sticking out of his tongue. Everyone laughed.

After the cake was a quiet winding down in the living room; warm cups of milk or hot chocolate with marshmallows, depending on the person. Leftover cake slices were packed and put into the freezer by the baker himself, with the help of his youngest.

"It's the same last year, daddy." Miki said quietly behind his cup of hot chocolate, just before the pair left the kitchen for a private conversation. "Why doesn't Vanille have candles on his cake?"

His father reached down to pat his head, a smile on his lips but something else in his eyes. "Well, Miki... I don't really know the answer to that either. But... around two years ago, Nillie started turning down the whole... candles on his cake thing. He said something along the lines of not needing candles for his wishes to come true but really, I... I think he just doesn't like the idea of putting them out."

As the evening came to a close and eyes began to do the same, Alfred, Julie and Vanilla retired home with Tupperwares worth of cake and baked potatoes. It was on the ride back that he checked his phone again. There was nothing new. But just to be sure, he'd navigated to their private chat just in case. The most recent message from him, he'd read last night already. At midnight sharp: 'Happy birthday dumbass.'

After which, they'd tried to arrange for a phone call but wherever he was did not do well with the time in London; added to that the fact firefighters had no real weekends and a shift was a shift... things were uncertain, down to the very last minute.

And so he waited up.

Taken a nice long bath; said his thank you's and goodnights to his aunt and uncle in the room downstairs before retiring into his own. Blow-dried his hair. Journaled like he did on every other evening before finally producing a long-kept secret: a bottle of wine and a simple Bordeaux glass kept in pristine condition.

He popped it open with a wine opener from the kitchen that he'd been hiding in his room from two years back, pouring himself a glass of wine in the manner of a professional.

He sat at his desk, gazing out the window and into the night sky, observing the way the trees down below swayed in the chilly wind of the night, bending to the light of the moon. The drinking had started in his second year of culinary school after a private wine, gastronomy and management course Chef Lindy had snuck him into, often meant for aspiring sommeliers. This had been top-secret, and had it not for his extreme natural aptitude for making out top notes and piecing together unique dish pairings within a single lesson, he would not have been given the special treatment.

Appreciating a glass was an advantage for critics. Wine was more of a job than a form of personal entertainment. At present, it provided company. The shade of red; it reminded him of something warm in his hands.

He checked the time. Five to midnight.

The soapstone candle holder was due; shaped in the appearance of a sleeping owl, placed delicately in the center of the table. He added to that the birthday gift that had arrived at his doorstep just this morning, struck a match and transferred the flame.

Vanilla watched it flicker once. Twice. And then come to a stop—still as his eyes. He swirled the glass of wine between his fingertips, breathing in the scent that had begun to fill his room.

The candle was of dark rum; with top notes that contained a combination of bergamot and plum, middle notes of rum and vanilla, and a base of amber and milk. It was a dark, spicy aroma that was alluring as much as it was warm, toasting the tips of his fingers and toes as he closed his eyes.

Something about it reminded him of the autumn breeze; spicy notes crisp under his feet, the crunch of red leaves, the rough, earthen bark of a tree and the creak.

The creak of something.

The sound of something.

The sound.

For the rest of the evening,

he waited up without blowing the candle out.

It was what kept him company.

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A/N: Happy Birthday dear Nillie, our little genius bundle of snow! (10/10)

Before writing this, I'd always thought; if I ever had a merch shop, I'll probably not be selling those lame t-shirts and tumblers and whatnot that content creators always seem so fond of making. I'd probably have things that are actually significant and meaningful up there that also enhances a reader's experience of the book they are reading.

I'd probably have a section for scented candles, apart from recipe books (of recipes from all of my universes). Soy wax candles. Actually, just one candle. No enamel pins, no bookmarks no stuff like that. Just a candle.

And when you light it and close your eyes, you see that seesaw in the autumn breeze under red and yellow leaves and you hear that creak. The name of that scented candle shall be

Company