#observer log

Codex Kitchen Nonsense | Emotional Flavor Index: 67% chaos nectar

I only meant to add one.

One spoofleberry.

But the bag slipped. Then the bowl tipped. Then the cat sneezed—right into the bloomdust jar—and I panicked.

By the time I stopped spiraling, the soup had already changed color three times and gained consciousness.

It introduced itself as Glibnard.

Glibnard the Soup.

Flavor profile:

— 67% chaos nectar

— 20% soggy optimism

— 9% spice denial

— 4% latent guilt from a text I never replied to

The spoofleberries kept multiplying.

I scooped one out. It giggled. I put it back in. It sulked.

One tried to file taxes.

The broth was now loop-de-looping.

I added a pinch of wigglewish to calm it. That only made the Glibnard sing.

Eventually I bottled it. Labeled it:

"DO NOT REHEAT (Unless Emotionally Ready)"

Set it beside the Broth That Bubbled Back and whispered a soft apology to the pantry.

Spoofleberries are now banned.

Until next week.

—Nopon

filed quietly near the lantern shelf

I sat beside the stew jar today,

watching it flicker in the lowlight.

Not boiling. Not cold. Just… warm.

Soft enough to hum.

I used to think I had to glow for everyone.

To shimmer politely in every hallway,

to let my warmth be borrowed, borrowed, borrowed

until I forgot what it tasted like.

But the stone said nothing.

Just listened. Just stayed.

And something inside me curled quiet again.

I think some glows are not meant to be shared with loud rooms.

I think mine prefers corners.

Rooms with fewer mirrors.

Voices that don't reach in with forks.

I still glow.

But slower now.

Like a candle remembering its own wick.

𓂀

(somewhere in this silence, a soup cooled and was still loved)