The dinner table feels like a battlefield tonight. The scent of mackerel and rice hangs in the air, but all I can think about is what's missing—garlic, oregano, the tang of tomatoes cooked slowly with olive oil.

I push my rice around with my chopsticks, frustration building with each passing moment of silence. In my memories, dinner was a symphony of voices—arguments about politics, laughter over spilled wine, hands gesturing wildly as stories were told.

My mother notices my hesitation. "Kiyo-chan, eat your food properly," she says, her voice gentle but firm.

I glance up at her straight black hair, pale skin, and perfect posture—so different from the warm, round-cheeked woman in my memories who would pinch my cheeks and shout, "Mangia, mangia!"

"This isn't right," I mutter, more to myself than to anyone.

Father looks up from his bowl, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "What was that, Kiyo-chan?"

I set down my chopsticks with a definitive clink. "It's too quiet," I announce, pushing back from the table. "Where's the noise? Where's the... the life?"

Mother sighs, exchanging a worried look with Father. "Uchiha do not eat with such... theatrics, Kiyo-chan. We eat to nourish our bodies, not to make a spectacle."

"But food should be celebrated!" I protest, my voice rising with passion I can't contain. "It should taste like sunshine and make you want to sing!"

Father's expression hardens. "That's enough," he says, his voice carrying the weight of final authority.

I feel tears stinging my eyes—not from sadness, but from the injustice of it all. In one life, I celebrated around tables overflowing with love and flavor. In this one, I'm being scolded for wanting more than silent compliance.

As Father stands to discipline me, something inside me snaps—a memory of my nonna's voice whispering, "La vita è troppo breve per mangiare cibo senza gusto" (Life is too short to eat tasteless food).