Between Sidewalks and Thrones

Chapter 1: The Kitchen She Left Behind

Alice had always felt more at home with the scent of garlic and rosemary in the air than the hum of passing cars or the pressure of polished dining rooms. She came from a small town tucked between hills that never quite touched the sky and neighbors who always knew your business by breakfast. It was simple, warm, and for a long time, just enough.

After culinary school, she landed her first job at Hazel's Kitchen—a cozy little restaurant where the menu was handwritten daily and the regulars always asked about her sketchbook before their soup. It wasn't glamorous. There were chipped plates and a backdoor that creaked too loud when deliveries came through, but it was hers. She plated dishes with love, herbs pinched fresh from the tiny garden behind the kitchen, and learned the rhythm of service like it was music only she could hear.

But one late autumn morning, she came in to find the front windows papered over and a note taped to the door: Closed until further notice. The "notice" never came. Hazel had sold the place quietly. Rent hikes. Supply costs. Too much love, not enough money.

Alice stood there for a long time that day—one hand still gripping her apron string in disbelief, the other clenching her sketchbook.

She didn't have a backup plan, but she had dreams. So she packed her things, said a quiet goodbye to the garden she'd helped grow, and took a leap that landed her in a city she never quite imagined herself in—Los Angeles. Or at least, on the edges of it.

Her first job offer came quickly. A well-known five-star restaurant downtown. The kind of place with white linen napkins, waiters who never spoke above a whisper, and menus printed on cardstock so thick it practically sighed when lifted. They liked her resume. More importantly, they liked that she kept her head down.

But Alice... Alice wasn't born for hush-toned egos and dishes served like art exhibits. She didn't hate it, but she didn't love it either. She was simply surviving. Learning her way around a city that glittered in some places and growled in others.

She rented a one-bedroom above a florist shop. It felt like a little victory. The air always smelled faintly of lavender and eucalyptus, and sometimes she got leftover blooms the shop couldn't sell. She dried them, pressed them in pages, or drew them into her sketchbook in the quiet hours after her shift.

Alice was small—barely five foot two—but she walked like someone used to carrying more than her weight. Her hair was long and soft, a sun-kissed shade of blonde that tumbled down her back when she didn't bother tying it up. Her blue eyes were calm, ocean-colored, and a little sad if you looked too long.

She always put some effort into how she looked—nothing flashy, just enough to say: I care. A touch of color on her cheeks, a simple necklace, rings she twirled absentmindedly when she was nervous. Her style leaned into the "clean hippie" vibe—loose, linen dresses, wide-legged pants, sandals when she could get away with them. She adored florals. Not just wearing them, but knowing their names, sketching them during breaks, whispering them under her breath like old friends—aster, freesia, salvia, cosmos.

City life was still new. The honking, the chaos, the expectations. She missed her quiet kitchen. She missed the way the wind sounded through trees rather than between buildings. But every day she got a little braver, a little more certain that she could build something here too—something just for herself.

And maybe, if she was lucky, something worth staying for.