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Chapter 2.3
The dining hall came alive long before the noon meal was ready.
Doors opened and closed with steady rhythm as researchers drifted in from every direction of the station. Heavy boots were left neatly beside the entrance before being exchanged for indoor shoes. Parkas disappeared onto hooks along the wall, their shoulders dusted with fine crystals of snow that melted almost at once in the warmth.
The room was never noisy.
It hummed.
Conversations wandered comfortably between weather reports, research schedules, equipment that needed repairing, and the simple question of whether anyone had remembered to make enough coffee.
Zeulla stood beside Merino, arranging fresh loaves into baskets while Henrik carried steaming pots from the stove.
Merino had insisted the bread be served first.
"If people smell bread," he had said that morning, "they'll forgive almost anything else."
Henrik had laughed.
"You've done this before."
"A few times."
The first researchers arrived with cheerful greetings.
A Spanish glaciologist thanked them in careful English before asking if there was any more butter.
"There is," Merino answered, "but not as much as you think."
The man grinned.
"I'll pretend I never asked."
A meteorologist from Norway complimented the soup.
One of the engineers declared that Merino's bread alone justified inviting chefs from Europe.
Merino accepted every compliment with the same small nod before returning his attention to the next plate.
Zeulla noticed something else.
No matter who approached the serving counter, Henrik greeted them by name.
She wondered how many winters it had taken to learn them all.
The room slowly filled.
Chairs scraped gently across the floor.
Steam rose from bowls.
Laughter drifted now and then from one table before settling again into quiet conversation.
Then, almost as though the station itself had been waiting, the dining hall door opened once more.
A tall man stepped inside, brushing snow from the shoulders of his jacket before removing his gloves.
Stiaano.
Henrik smiled without looking surprised.
"There he is."
Zeulla glanced toward the clock.
"He's late."
Henrik shook his head.
"No."
She looked puzzled.
"He's Stiaano."
As though that explained everything.
Stiaano greeted those nearest the door before joining the line. By then only a few people remained waiting for lunch.
Merino filled his plate just as carefully as he had filled the first.
"There you are," Merino said.
"I was beginning to think the penguins had adopted you."
"They tried."
"And?"
"They decided I talked too much."
Merino looked unconvinced.
"I don't believe that."
"Neither did they."
Zeulla smiled to herself.
He thanked both cooks before carrying his tray to the same table near the window.
Not once during the meal did he hurry.
He ate slowly, pausing now and then to look through the glass toward the rocky shoreline below.
By the time most of the researchers had finished eating, Stiaano was still enjoying the last of his soup.
When at last he rose, he carried his tray to the sink, stacked his dishes neatly, wiped the table without being asked, and glanced toward the coffee pot.
Seeing it nearly empty, he quietly brewed another.
No one commented.
It was simply something he always did.
Zeulla watched him leave.
He was the last one out.
Just as Henrik had said.
The dining hall came alive long before the noon meal was ready.
Doors opened and closed with steady rhythm as researchers drifted in from every direction of the station. Heavy boots were left neatly beside the entrance before being exchanged for indoor shoes. Parkas disappeared onto hooks along the wall, their shoulders dusted with fine crystals of snow that melted almost at once in the warmth.
The room was never noisy.
It hummed.
Conversations wandered comfortably between weather reports, research schedules, equipment that needed repairing, and the simple question of whether anyone had remembered to make enough coffee.
Zeulla stood beside Merino, arranging fresh loaves into baskets while Henrik carried steaming pots from the stove.
Merino had insisted the bread be served first.
"If people smell bread," he had said that morning, "they'll forgive almost anything else."
Henrik had laughed.
"You've done this before."
"A few times."
The first researchers arrived with cheerful greetings.
A Spanish glaciologist thanked them in careful English before asking if there was any more butter.
"There is," Merino answered, "but not as much as you think."
The man grinned.
"I'll pretend I never asked."
A meteorologist from Norway complimented the soup.
One of the engineers declared that Merino's bread alone justified inviting chefs from Europe.
Merino accepted every compliment with the same small nod before returning his attention to the next plate.
Zeulla noticed something else.
No matter who approached the serving counter, Henrik greeted them by name.
She wondered how many winters it had taken to learn them all.
The room slowly filled.
Chairs scraped gently across the floor.
Steam rose from bowls.
Laughter drifted now and then from one table before settling again into quiet conversation.
Then, almost as though the station itself had been waiting, the dining hall door opened once more.
A tall man stepped inside, brushing snow from the shoulders of his jacket before removing his gloves.
Stiaano.
Henrik smiled without looking surprised.
"There he is."
Zeulla glanced toward the clock.
"He's late."
Henrik shook his head.
"No."
She looked puzzled.
"He's Stiaano."
As though that explained everything.
Stiaano greeted those nearest the door before joining the line. By then only a few people remained waiting for lunch.
Merino filled his plate just as carefully as he had filled the first.
"There you are," Merino said.
"I was beginning to think the penguins had adopted you."
"They tried."
"And?"
"They decided I talked too much."
Merino looked unconvinced.
"I don't believe that."
"Neither did they."
Zeulla smiled to herself.
He thanked both cooks before carrying his tray to the same table near the window.
Not once during the meal did he hurry.
He ate slowly, pausing now and then to look through the glass toward the rocky shoreline below.
By the time most of the researchers had finished eating, Stiaano was still enjoying the last of his soup.
When at last he rose, he carried his tray to the sink, stacked his dishes neatly, wiped the table without being asked, and glanced toward the coffee pot.
Seeing it nearly empty, he quietly brewed another.
No one commented.
It was simply something he always did.
Zeulla watched him leave.
He was the last one out.
Just as Henrik had said.
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Chapter 2.2
The room was no larger than a village greenhouse, yet it felt like another season entirely. Rows of lettuce stretched beneath clear panels overhead, their crisp leaves glowing with impossible shades of green. Trays of spinach rested beneath them. Pots of parsley, chives and dill filled a shelf along one wall. Moisture gathered softly upon the glass while small fans whispered overhead.
She forgot to speak.
The scent reached her first.
Fresh soil.
Growing leaves.
The faint sweetness of damp earth.
It reminded her so completely of home that she closed her eyes for a brief moment.
When she opened them again, Henrik was smiling.
"I've seen that expression before."
"You have?"
"Everyone who misses green things wears it."
She walked slowly between the rows, careful not to brush against the leaves.
"I never imagined..."
"Most people don't."
He knelt beside one of the beds.
"We grow what we can."
Zeulla crouched nearby.
One lettuce had begun pressing against another.
Without thinking, she loosened the soil gently around the smaller plant, giving its roots a little room.
Henrik watched in silence.
"You garden."
"My grandmother did."
"And you learned."
"I mostly watched."
"Watching is how people learn."
She smiled.
"My grandmother used to say plants can tell when someone is impatient."
Henrik chuckled.
"I believe she's right."
Zeulla pinched away two yellowing leaves and laid them carefully in a small compost container.
"They're taking energy from the healthy ones."
Henrik looked at her with mild surprise.
"You noticed that quickly."
"My parents owned a little pop-up restaurant."
She brushed a little soil from her fingertips.
"My grandmother supplied most of the vegetables."
"So you've always been around food."
"I suppose I have."
Henrik rested his hands on his knees.
"You're welcome here whenever your work allows."
She looked up.
"You don't mind?"
"I've learned something after living here."
"What is that?"
He glanced around the little greenhouse.
"Anything that grows survives because somebody cared enough not to neglect it."
Zeulla looked once more at the rows of lettuce.
Outside, snow covered almost everything she could see.
Inside, life quietly insisted on being green.
She thought it might become her favorite room in the station.
The room was no larger than a village greenhouse, yet it felt like another season entirely. Rows of lettuce stretched beneath clear panels overhead, their crisp leaves glowing with impossible shades of green. Trays of spinach rested beneath them. Pots of parsley, chives and dill filled a shelf along one wall. Moisture gathered softly upon the glass while small fans whispered overhead.
She forgot to speak.
The scent reached her first.
Fresh soil.
Growing leaves.
The faint sweetness of damp earth.
It reminded her so completely of home that she closed her eyes for a brief moment.
When she opened them again, Henrik was smiling.
"I've seen that expression before."
"You have?"
"Everyone who misses green things wears it."
She walked slowly between the rows, careful not to brush against the leaves.
"I never imagined..."
"Most people don't."
He knelt beside one of the beds.
"We grow what we can."
Zeulla crouched nearby.
One lettuce had begun pressing against another.
Without thinking, she loosened the soil gently around the smaller plant, giving its roots a little room.
Henrik watched in silence.
"You garden."
"My grandmother did."
"And you learned."
"I mostly watched."
"Watching is how people learn."
She smiled.
"My grandmother used to say plants can tell when someone is impatient."
Henrik chuckled.
"I believe she's right."
Zeulla pinched away two yellowing leaves and laid them carefully in a small compost container.
"They're taking energy from the healthy ones."
Henrik looked at her with mild surprise.
"You noticed that quickly."
"My parents owned a little pop-up restaurant."
She brushed a little soil from her fingertips.
"My grandmother supplied most of the vegetables."
"So you've always been around food."
"I suppose I have."
Henrik rested his hands on his knees.
"You're welcome here whenever your work allows."
She looked up.
"You don't mind?"
"I've learned something after living here."
"What is that?"
He glanced around the little greenhouse.
"Anything that grows survives because somebody cared enough not to neglect it."
Zeulla looked once more at the rows of lettuce.
Outside, snow covered almost everything she could see.
Inside, life quietly insisted on being green.
She thought it might become her favorite room in the station.
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5 reactions
✨Chapter One
The Last Haircut Before December
The inflatable boat rose and fell with the swell, its rubber sides brushing softly against floating pieces of ice. Zeulla tightened her hold on the crate resting across her knees, more concerned for its contents than for the cold spray dampening her gloves.
"What did you pack in there?" Merino asked over the engine.
"The herbs."
"The fresh ones?"
She nodded.
He sighed the sigh of a man who had already accepted defeat.
"If you had fallen overboard, would you have saved yourself or the herbs?"
Zeulla smiled.
"The herbs."
"I believe you."
"And then I'd save myself."
"I should hope so."
The boat nudged the landing with a dull thump.
A station worker stepped forward to steady it while everyone climbed onto the rocky shore one at a time. Beyond them, a cluster of buildings stood against a world of snow, their brightly painted walls almost cheerful in a place where little else carried color.
Zeulla stopped for a moment.
"So..."
Merino looked back.
"So?"
"We're really here."
He adjusted the strap on a heavy box of cooking supplies.
"Yes."
She drew a slow breath.
"I've never seen so much white."
"You'll get used to it."
She wasn't sure she wanted to.
There was something wonderfully untouched about the landscape. The wind swept over the ice without asking permission, and the sea breathed against the shore as though it had been keeping the same patient rhythm for centuries.
It felt less like arriving somewhere and more like stepping into someone else's silence.
"Come along," Merino called.
"The onions won't unpack themselves."
She laughed and hurried after him.
---
Merino had built successful businesses long before he became a chef.
He still believed kitchens should run the same way.
Everything had a place.
Everything had a purpose.
Every minute mattered.
Zeulla admired him for that, though she had never quite learned to think as he did.
Her parents' little pop-up restaurant had lived by different rules.
Her mother rarely looked at recipes once she knew them by heart, but she never served a meal without tasting it first.
Sometimes she added another pinch of salt.
Sometimes less.
Sometimes only a sprig of thyme.
"Food should greet people kindly," she always said.
As a little girl, Zeulla had thought food couldn't possibly greet anyone.
Now she understood.
Some meals welcomed people home.
Others simply filled an empty stomach.
Her mother had always hoped theirs would do both.
---
The station kitchen was smaller than she expected, though no less inviting.
Copper pots hung neatly above the counter.
A kettle murmured on the stove.
Someone had placed a small potted plant beside the window.
Its leaves leaned faithfully toward the pale Antarctic sun.
Zeulla smiled.
At least something here was growing.
She touched one yellowing leaf.
"Too close to the window," she murmured.
Without thinking, she moved the pot a little farther from the glass.
Merino watched from across the room.
"You've been here three minutes."
"It looked uncomfortable."
"It's a plant."
"It was still uncomfortable."
He shook his head, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
---
By the second evening, the dining hall smelled of warm bread, roasted vegetables, and beef stew.
Researchers drifted in wearing heavy parkas and tired smiles.
Some spoke English.
Others greeted one another in languages Zeulla couldn't place.
Everyone seemed grateful for something warm.
She liked that.
People were easier to understand over a meal.
Near the end of supper, she noticed someone standing just inside the doorway.
He hesitated as though debating whether he had arrived too late.
Dark hair escaped from beneath a knitted cap in every direction imaginable.
He removed it with quiet embarrassment.
"I'm afraid my hair has become rather difficult."
Zeulla looked up.
She studied him for a moment before a smile escaped.
"I think it's already beyond negotiation."
He laughed.
It was the sort of laugh that arrived easily, without demanding attention.
"I suspected as much."
Merino glanced over his shoulder.
"You'll eat first."
The young man nodded obediently.
"Then," Merino continued, pointing his spoon toward the unruly hair, "we'll discuss rescuing... whatever that is."
Another quiet laugh.
"My name is Stiaano."
"Zeulla."
She held out her hand.
His gloves were cold from the wind.
His handshake wasn't.
---
Over the following days, she noticed he was unlike most of the researchers.
The others finished their meals quickly before hurrying back to their work.
Stiaano lingered.
Not because he was idle.
Because he paid attention.
One afternoon he broke off a piece of bread.
"You changed it."
Zeulla looked up from wiping the counter.
"I did?"
"The crust."
She blinked.
"You noticed?"
"It crackled differently."
She laughed.
"I was expecting you to say the soup."
"I spend my days watching penguins."
He shrugged almost apologetically.
"I've learned that small changes usually matter."
He finished the last of his tea before carrying his tray to the sink.
"Thank you for dinner."
After he left, Zeulla tore off a small piece of the same loaf.
She tasted it.
The crust was, in fact, a little thinner.
She smiled to herself.
It was a small thing.
But then, she had always believed the smallest things were often the ones worth noticing.
The Last Haircut Before December
The inflatable boat rose and fell with the swell, its rubber sides brushing softly against floating pieces of ice. Zeulla tightened her hold on the crate resting across her knees, more concerned for its contents than for the cold spray dampening her gloves.
"What did you pack in there?" Merino asked over the engine.
"The herbs."
"The fresh ones?"
She nodded.
He sighed the sigh of a man who had already accepted defeat.
"If you had fallen overboard, would you have saved yourself or the herbs?"
Zeulla smiled.
"The herbs."
"I believe you."
"And then I'd save myself."
"I should hope so."
The boat nudged the landing with a dull thump.
A station worker stepped forward to steady it while everyone climbed onto the rocky shore one at a time. Beyond them, a cluster of buildings stood against a world of snow, their brightly painted walls almost cheerful in a place where little else carried color.
Zeulla stopped for a moment.
"So..."
Merino looked back.
"So?"
"We're really here."
He adjusted the strap on a heavy box of cooking supplies.
"Yes."
She drew a slow breath.
"I've never seen so much white."
"You'll get used to it."
She wasn't sure she wanted to.
There was something wonderfully untouched about the landscape. The wind swept over the ice without asking permission, and the sea breathed against the shore as though it had been keeping the same patient rhythm for centuries.
It felt less like arriving somewhere and more like stepping into someone else's silence.
"Come along," Merino called.
"The onions won't unpack themselves."
She laughed and hurried after him.
---
Merino had built successful businesses long before he became a chef.
He still believed kitchens should run the same way.
Everything had a place.
Everything had a purpose.
Every minute mattered.
Zeulla admired him for that, though she had never quite learned to think as he did.
Her parents' little pop-up restaurant had lived by different rules.
Her mother rarely looked at recipes once she knew them by heart, but she never served a meal without tasting it first.
Sometimes she added another pinch of salt.
Sometimes less.
Sometimes only a sprig of thyme.
"Food should greet people kindly," she always said.
As a little girl, Zeulla had thought food couldn't possibly greet anyone.
Now she understood.
Some meals welcomed people home.
Others simply filled an empty stomach.
Her mother had always hoped theirs would do both.
---
The station kitchen was smaller than she expected, though no less inviting.
Copper pots hung neatly above the counter.
A kettle murmured on the stove.
Someone had placed a small potted plant beside the window.
Its leaves leaned faithfully toward the pale Antarctic sun.
Zeulla smiled.
At least something here was growing.
She touched one yellowing leaf.
"Too close to the window," she murmured.
Without thinking, she moved the pot a little farther from the glass.
Merino watched from across the room.
"You've been here three minutes."
"It looked uncomfortable."
"It's a plant."
"It was still uncomfortable."
He shook his head, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
---
By the second evening, the dining hall smelled of warm bread, roasted vegetables, and beef stew.
Researchers drifted in wearing heavy parkas and tired smiles.
Some spoke English.
Others greeted one another in languages Zeulla couldn't place.
Everyone seemed grateful for something warm.
She liked that.
People were easier to understand over a meal.
Near the end of supper, she noticed someone standing just inside the doorway.
He hesitated as though debating whether he had arrived too late.
Dark hair escaped from beneath a knitted cap in every direction imaginable.
He removed it with quiet embarrassment.
"I'm afraid my hair has become rather difficult."
Zeulla looked up.
She studied him for a moment before a smile escaped.
"I think it's already beyond negotiation."
He laughed.
It was the sort of laugh that arrived easily, without demanding attention.
"I suspected as much."
Merino glanced over his shoulder.
"You'll eat first."
The young man nodded obediently.
"Then," Merino continued, pointing his spoon toward the unruly hair, "we'll discuss rescuing... whatever that is."
Another quiet laugh.
"My name is Stiaano."
"Zeulla."
She held out her hand.
His gloves were cold from the wind.
His handshake wasn't.
---
Over the following days, she noticed he was unlike most of the researchers.
The others finished their meals quickly before hurrying back to their work.
Stiaano lingered.
Not because he was idle.
Because he paid attention.
One afternoon he broke off a piece of bread.
"You changed it."
Zeulla looked up from wiping the counter.
"I did?"
"The crust."
She blinked.
"You noticed?"
"It crackled differently."
She laughed.
"I was expecting you to say the soup."
"I spend my days watching penguins."
He shrugged almost apologetically.
"I've learned that small changes usually matter."
He finished the last of his tea before carrying his tray to the sink.
"Thank you for dinner."
After he left, Zeulla tore off a small piece of the same loaf.
She tasted it.
The crust was, in fact, a little thinner.
She smiled to herself.
It was a small thing.
But then, she had always believed the smallest things were often the ones worth noticing.
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