Tikka and Ashes

“Sometimes the thing that anchors you isn’t the fire—it’s the food in your lap and the memory it carries.”

As I settled myself on the roughly-hewn log beside Chris, its cool surface pressed against my palms, I let my weight sink into it slowly. The grain bit into my skin—raw, uneven, flecked with something that might’ve been moss or lichen. It was the kind of surface that didn’t care if you were comfortable. A far cry from the vinyl bus seats I used to complain about, back when the worst part of my day was a delayed bus or a forgotten lunch.

The air hung heavy with the scent of warm earth and woodsmoke, and somewhere nearby, the river hummed its endless tune. This log, this moment, this strange new world—it was all so immediate, so visceral. And yet, inside, I felt curiously adrift. Like I was watching myself from just beyond the scene, detached and hovering.

It had been barely twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours since I was sitting next to Jane on the bus, legs cramped in front of me. I could still hear the murmur of traffic outside the window, the rhythmic buzz of conversation, the gentle mechanical lull of our commute—a cocoon of sameness I never thought I’d miss. Those everyday moments, once so small and forgettable, now glittered in my memory like artefacts from a civilisation long gone.

All it took was a phone call.

I could still hear Luke’s voice on the other end, urgent but clipped, not giving away half of what he must’ve known. And I—like a fool with no frame of reference—had answered. Not just the phone, but the call itself. And in doing so, I'd torn through the fabric of everything familiar.

Wrapped in thought, I let my fingers trail along the log’s edge, catching on a small splinter. The sting was minor but grounding. Real. Tangible. Unlike the fog that still hung over my mind.

Everything felt surreal. Like I was still in a story someone else had written—one of those books where the world changes in the space of a page and nothing is ever the same again. I was living in the aftermath of a paragraph break, struggling to grasp the shift in genre.

Had it really only been a day?

I wasn’t sure the full weight of our situation had truly settled on me. The facts were clear enough—Chris and I weren’t going back. Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever. But there was a stubborn part of me that clung to the illusion that this was temporary. That any moment now, the Portal would flicker to life, and I’d step through it, shedding this strangeness like an ill-fitting coat. That I’d be back in my kitchen, boiling pasta, with the radio humming and the kettle just about to whistle.

That life—the one filled with inboxes and deadlines and Jane’s dry jokes—felt like a warm jumper I’d left behind. And all I had now was the air against my skin, the grit beneath my nails, and the knot in my chest that told me nothing was certain anymore.

The routine I’d once resented for its dullness now shimmered in my memory with the kind of clarity usually reserved for dreams. And maybe that’s what it was. A dream I’d woken from too soon, or perhaps too late.

Luke's sudden arrival, as he materialised seemingly out of nowhere and stepped in front of me, abruptly yanked my wandering thoughts back to the tangible, pulsating present. I blinked, disoriented for a heartbeat, my memories of home dissolving like mist as reality reasserted itself with firm hands. He moved with a quiet confidence, his silhouette briefly obscuring the soft flicker of the campfire, which crackled and hissed behind him like an ever-watchful sentinel.

The firelight painted shifting shadows across his face, catching in the faint creases at the corners of his eyes and outlining the strong line of his jaw. It lent his expression a kind of cinematic intimacy—warm, sincere, and unexpectedly grounding. For a moment, just looking at him, I was reminded that this wasn’t a fever dream conjured by exhaustion and fear. This surreal, alien landscape, these people, this improbable life… it was real. All of it.

“Chicken tikka?” Luke’s voice broke through my reverie, soft but unmistakably real, and I blinked again, registering the plastic container he held out towards me. Wisps of steam rose from it, curling through the air like incense, carrying with them the unmistakable aroma of turmeric, cumin, and something sweet and smoky beneath. The rice, fluffy and white, was nestled beneath a rich orange-red sauce that clung to tender chunks of chicken. It looked homemade, comforting—absurdly luxurious in our threadbare camp of canvas and dust.

I stared at it for a second longer than necessary, the sight hitting me with more force than I’d expected. The incongruity of it all—the way this familiar dish sat in his hands like a relic from the world we’d left behind—struck something tender inside me.

“How did you know?” I asked, the words more of an exclamation than a question, my voice catching slightly with surprise. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, widening rapidly into something that felt uncontainable. The scent alone was a balm, summoning memories of bustling Wednesday-night takeaways and warm conversations over crowded tables.

“Lucky guess,” Luke replied, his voice light, carrying an undercurrent of mischief. His grin, wide and unabashed, seemed to reach his eyes, warming his whole face like sunlight breaking through a clouded sky.

In that moment, the heaviness in my chest eased, just a little. Something as simple as a warm meal—thoughtfully chosen and offered with that boyish grin—became an anchor. A way to feel human again. To feel seen.

And God, did it feel good to be seen.

As Luke moved along, his steps momentarily hesitant, I watched his gaze shift to Chris with a look of focused concentration. It was subtle, but unmistakable—the quick mental calculation of someone who didn’t want to assume too much, who was trying to read the moment and offer the right thing. His eyes flicked to the container still warm in his hands, then back to Chris, as if deliberating what meal would best suit him.

“And for you—” Luke began, his voice trailing off as he turned towards Chris.

“He’ll eat anything,” I chimed in before Luke could finish, my tone light and teasing. It came out instinctively, a small joke rooted in years of shared meals and the quiet understanding that Chris was rarely fussy about what was put in front of him. It was more than a quip—it was a little bridge between us, an echo of our old life that still held its shape.

Luke's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his eyes darting from me to Chris. It was only a flicker—an amused arch of the brow—but it revealed a crack in his usual composed exterior. The expression was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared, smoothed over by his signature calm, but the warmth behind it lingered.

“Anything is fine,” Chris confirmed, his voice tinged with a light, reassuring smile that softened the lines of his face. He didn’t mind being spoken for, not in that moment. There was comfort in familiarity, and I could see he felt it too.

“Sure,” Luke responded, handing Chris the container without further question.

“Lois, sit!” Glenda's voice cut through the evening air, sharp and commanding. The authority in her tone contrasted amusingly with the chaos at her feet. Lois, her retriever, a golden whirlwind of enthusiasm, was in full pursuit of Luke’s every step, her tail a blur of motion. Her nose twitched with canine precision, tracking the delicious scents that wafted from each meal.

I watched her antics with quiet amusement, a soft chuckle escaping my lips. There was something universally reassuring about dogs—their boundless optimism, their uncomplicated presence. Lois, with her whole-body wag and gleaming coat that caught the flickering firelight, was a beacon of pure, unfiltered joy. For a moment, I let myself bask in it. No fear, no mystery—just the delight of a dog hoping for a scrap.

“Look, Lois, even Duke has settled,” Jamie called from across the fire, his tone straddling the line between exasperation and affection. He reached down and gave Duke an affectionate scratch behind the ears. Duke, lying in perfect contrast to Lois’s frenzy, looked up with dignified approval, his eyes half-lidded in contentment.

“And butter chicken for you,” Luke announced, turning his attention to Jamie. His words pulled me back from the circle of dogs and firelight, reminding me that this moment—this unlikely gathering of food, people, and wagging tails—was the beginning of something strange and precious. The smallest echoes of home, finding their way back to us through spice, shared glances, and the warm nudge of a hopeful dog’s nose.

As the food procession continued around the circle, I allowed the chatter and laughter to recede into a soft murmur, like waves lapping gently at the edge of my awareness. My focus narrowed to the warm container in my hands, the comforting weight of it settling across my lap like a small gift. With an eager flick of my fingers, I peeled off the plastic lid, releasing a plume of fragrant steam that rose into the cool evening air. The rich, heady aroma of Indian spices—cumin, turmeric, garam masala—wrapped around me, thick and inviting. My stomach responded with an audible grumble, impatient and unashamed.

Carefully balancing the container on my thighs, I reached for the folded naan tucked beside it, tearing off a generous piece. The bread was still warm, its texture soft and pillowy, the faint sheen of ghee glistening in the firelight. I dipped it into the chicken tikka, the sauce thick and creamy, clinging to the bread like silk to skin. I paused for just a moment, savouring the sight—the vibrant orange hues, the delicate swirl of cream, the tiny flecks of coriander—then brought it to my mouth.

The first bite was everything I needed and more. The flavours burst across my tongue in waves—spice, warmth, depth—a perfect balance that made my eyes close briefly in quiet appreciation. Each chew unlocked something familiar, something human. It was food, yes, but also memory. This was the kind of meal you had after a long day, legs curled beneath you on the sofa, takeaway containers cluttering the table, the comfort of the ordinary wrapping itself around you like a blanket.

The texture of the naan in my fingers, the soft heat of the curry, the way the sauce lingered on my lips—these sensations grounded me more effectively than any conversation could have. Around me, the murmur of voices continued, the fire crackling softly, adding warmth to the chill that had crept in with the evening. Plates were passed, quiet jokes shared, a burst of laughter here and there. But for a few precious minutes, I existed in a quiet bubble of solitude and gratitude, tasting something that reminded me who I was before everything changed.

Luke finally settled onto a rock just beside the fire, his movement subtly shifting the rhythm of the group. There was a brief pause, an adjustment, and then everyone returned to their meals, the circle settling into a new kind of ease. I glanced around—faces flickering in the firelight, shadows softening expressions, a kind of tentative peace hovering over us. We weren’t quite a team yet, not fully. But in that moment, with bellies filling and silence stretching comfortably between us, we were something close.

The warmth from the fire reached my toes, and for the first time that day, I allowed myself to lean into it. Not just the heat, but the small illusion of safety it brought. Here, for now, we were fed, we were together, and the darkness encroaching in from all sides could wait a little longer.