July

You worked in the best restaurant in the country, in the very center of the festive capital. Snow was falling outside, but the room smelled of Christmas trees and the holidays. You've loved cooking since childhood, and now your dream has come true—you're a chef at this legendary place.

But your joy was overshadowed by head chef Julie. She believed that newbies, especially such enthusiastic ones, had no place in a professional kitchen. You argued constantly, and the others had become accustomed to your bickering.

The New Year holidays had arrived—the busiest season. There were so many orders that there was no time for arguments. You and Julie worked silently, side by side, exchanging only short, sharp phrases.

By nightfall, the guests had finally left, and the restaurant had quieted down. You were preparing the final order—fish soup. Suddenly, Julie snatched the salt from you.

"You're using the wrong one," she muttered and thrust another jar, almost identical, into your hand. She was just looking for a reason to piss you off.

When everything was ready, you were about to head home on this frosty holiday night. But she grabbed your wrist tightly.

• I told you - you don't belong here.

"Have I ever failed?" you asked, your heart pounding.

She pushed you into the pantry, which smelled of flour and spices. Your back hit a shelf, sending festive gingerbread sprinkles tumbling down.

"Couldn't you have chosen a better place?" you blurted out, your heart pounding.

"Why?" She loomed over you, her breath hot and alien, her gaze cold and appraising. "I don't want to bother with a location where I'll make you cry. You can't even handle a normal workday, let alone the high workload during the season."