The acceptance letter arrived wrapped in bread.
So-young peeled back the charred crust of the hotteok Grandfather had tossed onto her breakfast plate, revealing a cream-colored envelope inside. The Le Cordon Bleu logo gleamed under the kitchen lights, winking at her like a shared secret.
"Full scholarship," he grunted, stabbing his chopsticks into a side dish of kimchi. "Starts next month."
The room tilted. Paris. Now. When the Han empire was crumbling, when Moon & Son's lawyers circled like vultures, when the ancient grain silo had barely bought them three weeks' reprieve—
Li Na snatched the letter, her flour-dusted fingers leaving prints on the pristine paper. "You planned this."
Grandfather's jaw worked. "Seong-ho did." He reached into his breast pocket and tossed a faded Polaroid onto the table: a young man in a flour-smudged apron standing before the Parisian campus gates. 1968.
So-young's breath caught. Seong-ho looked like her—same stubborn chin, same defiant slouch.
Dae-ho whistled. "So we're just giving up?"
The old man's cane cracked against the floor tiles. "We're retreating to higher ground." He nodded at So-young. "You'll learn what we don't know. Then come back and burn them to the ground."
Outside, the apricot tree shuddered in a wind that didn't touch the other maples.
Moon & Son Headquarters – 11:59 PM
Kim Sang-chul's office was dark except for the glow of security monitors. Grainy footage showed So-young packing a suitcase in her bedroom, Li Na shredding documents in the Han Foods legal office, Old Man Park's farmers standing guard at the silo entrance.
A shadow detached itself from the corner. "The flight leaves at dawn."
Kim didn't turn. "Let her go. She's just a girl."
The shadow laughed—a wet, coughing sound. "Seong-ho was just a baker. Until he wasn't."
On screen, Grandfather Han knelt before the family altar, placing a single loaf of bread beside Seong-ho's portrait.
Kim finally turned to his visitor. "What's the play?"
The figure slid a vial across the desk. Inside, black sludge pulsed like a living thing.
"Strain X," they whispered. "The version that sticks."
Incheon International Airport – 4:17 AM
The bread weighed more than her luggage.
So-young adjusted the insulated package under her arm—the last loaf baked with Seong-ho's flour, its crust etched with the Han family crest. Around her, travelers rushed past in a blur of rolling suitcases and flight announcements, but the world had narrowed to three figures standing in the departure hall.
Li Na stuffed a wad of cash into her jacket pocket. "Don't fall for French boys. Their buttercream is lies."
Dae-ho, uncharacteristically quiet, pressed a USB into her palm. "Hacked Moon & Son's R&D servers. Study material."
Grandfather said nothing. Just grasped her shoulder with a hand that trembled slightly, his thumb brushing the fabric over her collarbone—right where Seong-ho's pendant would have hung, if she'd owned one.
Then he turned and walked away, his cane clicking against the linoleum.
The loudspeaker crackled. "Final boarding call for Flight 287 to Paris..."
So-young touched the bread's still-warm surface. Somewhere beneath the layers of wrapping paper, the apricot blossom stamp pulsed like a second heartbeat.
Epilogue: Eight Years Later – Charles de Gaulle Airport
The customs officer eyed the wooden crate suspiciously. "What is this?"
So-young adjusted her sunglasses, the morning light catching on the scar across her knuckles—a souvenir from Lucien's betrayal in patisserie school.
"Starter culture," she said, flipping open the lid to reveal the bubbling jar inside. The scent of barley and wild yeast bloomed between them, so potent the officer recoiled.
It had survived eight years. Three kitchens. Two heartbreaks. One food poisoning scandal that nearly got her deported.
And now it was coming home.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Dae-ho:
FYI Moon & Son just launched "Strain-Free Artisan" line. Also Grandfather's in the hospital. Also we might be bankrupt.
A second message followed—a photo of the Han Bakes storefront, its windows boarded up, its sign hanging crooked. Taped to the door, a single sheet of paper fluttered in the wind:
"Reopening Soon."
So-young hefted the crate onto her shoulder and strode toward the taxi stand.
Behind her, the starter burbled happily in its jar.